“Everything will work out,” I said out loud to myself as I stopped at a red light. That’s what Gloria said whenever I shared my doubts about fitting into Robert’s social sphere. Although he and I both came from middle-class families, his fortune changed dramatically when he got that M.D. after his name. His father was an electrician and no one else in his family had graduated from college, much less medical school. He’d worked hard for years to get where he was and it meant something to him to be a part of the country club set and to play golf with some of Raleigh’s most prominent citizens. I didn’t care about the trappings of wealth and status, but he did. He was proud of his accomplishments and I was proud of him, and other than having babies right away, I would do all I could to make him happy.
I’d only known him for a year. He’d asked me to marry him when we’d been together six months, though it felt like forever. “Six months is only six months, no matter how long it feels,” my mother had warned me when I told her we were engaged. She did like Robert, though. She particularly liked the fact that he was a doctor and I would want for nothing. As a widow, she worried about that.
We’d met at the wedding of a girl I went to college with, and we happened to be seated at the same table. It had only been a year since the accident that cost my father and sister their lives, and I was still weighed down by grief. Sitting next to Robert, though, I felt suddenly awake, as though I’d been sleepwalking through the past year. Lord, he was a handsome man! He reminded me of Rock Hudson, cleft chin and all. He said I reminded him of Grace Kelly, which was ridiculous but flattered me anyway. All my life, I’d been called plain. Teresa had been the pretty one. Suddenly, I felt beautiful. It was one of those attractions that made everyone else at the wedding disappear. He was thirty to my twenty-one, but the age difference didn’t matter. When I found out he was a doctor … Well, I could be just as shallow as the next girl. I was doubly attracted to him.
We crammed a lifetime of getting to know each other into that one night. He liked that I was not your typical girl. I didn’t make a fuss when the woman sitting next to me accidentally dropped butter on my dress, ruining it with a greasy stain. I didn’t blush when a man at the table told an off-color joke. We talked about music we liked and movies we’d seen. I’d just seen Peyton Place and his eyes widened at that. That movie had shocked me, but I didn’t let on. When the band started playing, we danced and danced and danced. My feet ached in my high heels and I tossed them under our table and kept on going. I felt giddy with joy. I’d nearly forgotten how it felt to be happy.
When we parted that evening, he kissed me in a way that turned my knees to jelly. Then he asked for my number. “You’re so refreshing,” he told me. “So different. You’re not always running to the ladies’ room to powder your nose or check your hair. I love how you took off your shoes to dance. I really like you.”
His extended family was huge and important to him, so I agreed to have the wedding in Atlanta, where he was from, instead of Raleigh. He’d been raised Methodist, so once we were married, we’d attend the Edenton Methodist Church instead of my beloved Pullen Baptist, where my father had been a deacon. When Robert’s parents came to visit him in Raleigh, I proudly took them to my church, not realizing that a visiting colored pastor would be preaching that day. That was nothing new at Pullen, but it was far too radical for my future in-laws, who walked out during the service. To Robert’s credit, he stayed with me for the service and apologized for their rudeness, but I knew he’d never set foot in Pullen again.
Leaving my church would be only one change among many. I was bidding good-bye to life as I’d known it and saying hello to the country club, where I couldn’t quite get my bearings, and the Junior League, which I still hadn’t applied to join. I would have Robert and that would be good enough. He’d brought me back to life when I hadn’t even realized I was dead.
I found a parking place in front of the Department of Public Welfare. My dress stuck to the back of my legs as I got out of the car. I was sure my hair was a mess after the drive with the windows open, and I tried to comb it into place with my fingers as I walked into the building. My appearance wasn’t going to make the best first impression and I suddenly felt nervous. I really wanted this job.
There was a fan in the office where I waited to be interviewed and I sat as close to it as I could without turning my hair into a rat’s nest. The air it blew on me must have been ninety degrees, but it was better than nothing.
A woman stepped out of her office and walked toward me, smiling. “Miss Mackie?” she asked. She was very slender and wore a short-sleeved blouse tucked into beige slacks. A Katharine Hepburn sort of look.
“Yes.” I got to my feet and shook her hand.
“I’m Charlotte Werkman,” she said. “Come with me.”
I followed her into the small office, its one window wide open, an oscillating fan in front of it fluttering the papers on her desk. “Shut the door behind you, please, and have a seat,” she said.
I sat down across the desk from her, smoothing my dress over my knees. I took in everything in the tiny office: the wall calendar with its picture of the governor’s mansion, photographs of children at various ages, a family picture of a young man and woman and two small children. A vase full of mixed flowers, the petals beginning to go brown at the edges but still adding a pop of color to the room. Someday, I thought, I might have an office like this.
“So.” She settled behind her desk and smiled at me and I liked her instantly. Such warmth and confidence in that smile! She looked nothing like I’d imagined a social worker to look. She was striking. She had to be in her forties—maybe even her fifties—but, except for a starburst of faint lines at the outer corners of her eyes, her skin looked as if it belonged in an Ivory soap commercial. Her gray eyes were huge and her hair, which was a pale, pale blond—nearly white—was clipped into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck. But it was the smile that most impressed me, and I felt all the muscles in my body loosen as I relaxed into the chair. I wanted to be like her, someone who could put people at ease with a smile.
“This would be your first job?” she asked, and I saw she had my thin résumé on the blotter in front of her.
“Well, my first … professional job,” I said, motioning toward the résumé, which covered my 4.0 grade point average from Woman’s College. It also showed the summer jobs I’d had working at a day camp for kids and the Red Cross volunteer work I did with my father and Teresa one week each year for most of my life. I had reference letters from two of my professors, attesting to my work ethic. It was the best I could pull together. I hoped it was good enough.
“Your degree is in sociology,” she said. “Did you consider a degree in social work?”
“It wasn’t offered at Woman’s College,” I said. “I had a couple of psychology courses, though, and those in addition to my sociology courses give me a good background, I think.”
She gave a slight nod. “Better than many applicants,” she said. “I was intrigued with what one of your professors—Dr. Adams—said about you.” She lifted one of the letters and began to read. “‘Miss Mackie’s passion for her work is matched only by her desire for perfection.’” She looked at me. “What does he mean by that sentence, do you think?”
I’d read that sentence in Dr. Adams’s letter many times, knowing he meant it not quite as the compliment it seemed. He thought I got carried away with my work sometimes. He said I was the only student he’d ever taught who wanted to redo a paper he’d graded an A because I thought I could make it even better.
“It’s important to me that I always do my best,” I said now to Mrs. Werkman.
“That can take a toll on a person, don’t you think?”
“That’s exactly what Dr. Adams said, but here I am.” I smiled broadly.
She returned the smile. “Well, you don’t look too much the worse for wear,” she said. “You look sweet and perky and attractive and much younger than twenty-two. I wonder how r
eady you are to get your hands dirty.”
“Very ready,” I said. I hoped I was telling the truth.
“I want to be sure you have no illusions that this is a glamorous job,” she said.
“I’m not looking for glamour,” I said. “My father always said, ‘True happiness comes from helping others.’ I believe that, too.”
She smiled again. “Tell me your strengths, then.” She sat back in her chair, ready to listen.
“I’m a quick learner,” I said. “I love people. I couldn’t imagine ever having a job where I didn’t interact with people. I’m smart.” I motioned toward my résumé and its GPA again. “I communicate well. I have good writing skills. I know I have to keep good records to do this work.”
“You mentioned on the phone that you’re getting married in a few weeks.”
“Two weeks. Yes.”
“What type of work does your husband-to-be do?”
“He’s a pediatrician.”
“Really! With a pediatrician husband, I’m sure you won’t have to work.”
Here we go again, I thought. “But I want to,” I said.
“I’m widowed,” she said, “so I really have no choice, though I do love it. How does your fiancé feel about you working?”
“I’m sorry you lost your husband,” I said. How? I wondered. My gaze moved to the photographs on her bookshelf, landing on the one of a whole family that looked like it was taken when she was much younger. The man had such a warm smile. My eyes welled.
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Werkman leaned forward, a small smile on her lips. She reached her hand halfway across her desk as if to console me. “You may be too soft for this work.”
“It’s just that…” I smiled with embarrassment. So much for my tough exterior. “My father died a couple of years ago,” I said. I wouldn’t mention Teresa. Not when I was trying desperately to keep my wits about me.
“Ah,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She followed my gaze to the photograph. “That’s not my family,” she said with a laugh. “This actually isn’t even my office. It’s just the one I’m using for interviews. And I lost my husband a long time ago. It was terrible at first, of course, but I’ve adjusted. And this interview is about you, not me. That’s something you’ll have to learn very quickly, Miss Mackie.”
I was confused. “What is?”
“That your work with your clients is about them, not you. You might relate to something they’re going through, but you’ll have to learn to put those feelings aside. Never talk about your own life. Focus on your clients and their needs or you won’t be able to help them.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Back to my question, then. Does your fiancé support the idea of you working?”
“I know how good he feels that he can help people as a doctor and I know he’d like me to have that feeling, too.” It was the best I could offer—an evasive answer.
“How about children?”
“No plans for them right now.”
“You’ll be in the field ninety percent of your time,” she said.
I nodded. I liked the sound of that: “in the field.” It made the job sound adventurous and important.
“Half your caseload will be colored.” She studied me with those huge pale gray eyes to see how I’d react to that.
“That’s fine,” I said. I thought of the poor colored neighborhoods in Raleigh. If I was being honest with myself, there were areas I was afraid to walk in. I was going to have to develop a stronger backbone—and maybe keep it from Robert for a bit. He would never allow me in those neighborhoods.
“How do you feel about what happened in Greensboro?”
I was confused for a moment, thinking of WC, which is what we called my Greensboro college. Then I thought I understood. “Oh. Do you mean the protests at the Woolworth’s lunch counter?”
She nodded. “What did you think of that?”
I hedged. I certainly knew what I thought, but I didn’t know if it was the “right” answer or if it could cost me the job. Still, I couldn’t lie about my feelings.
“I think they were very brave,” I said of the Negro students who dared to sit at the lunch counter reserved for whites. I thought of the “colored” and “white” drinking fountains I’d passed in the hallway on my way to Mrs. Werkman’s office—or whoever’s office we were in. “I think all people should be treated with the same respect and have the same rights.”
She smiled. “An idealist,” she said.
“If that’s the definition of an idealist, then I guess I am one,” I said.
“I’m afraid this job could turn you into more of a realist and that would be a shame,” she said, “but I agree with you. With your ideals, though, it may be too soon for the minds of the South. You’re going to see what centuries of inequality have done to your Negro clients, and your white clients won’t be much better off. The challenge we have is relating to people who have very different backgrounds from our own, regardless of race. It’s difficult because so many of them, you’ll find, are of very low intellect.”
“I’d like the challenge,” I said, and I meant it.
“Keep your ideals in your mind and your heart,” she said. “And remember that with all of your clients, there but for the grace of God…”
“I have the job?” I asked.
“Yes, Miss Mackie, you do. Salary is $185 a month. Can you start two weeks from Monday?”
I was stuck on the hundred and eighty-five dollars. Better than I’d expected. Then the “two weeks from Monday” sank in and I gave an apologetic shake of my head. “My wedding is that Saturday.”
“Ah yes.” She turned to look at the calendar. “And then a honeymoon, I suppose?”
“Just for a week. I could start the Monday after.”
“That will have to do, then,” she said. “You’ll actually be taking my place in the field. Our director’s retiring and I’m moving into his position.”
“Congratulations.” I smiled.
“Thank you, I think.” She laughed. “I’ll miss the field, but I hope I’ll be able to make some positive changes in the department. So”—she glanced at the calendar again—“we’ll begin that Monday. You’ll go on home visits with me and get to know some of your clients. We’ll only be able to do that for a couple of weeks, though, because we’re terribly short staffed, as you’ll soon find out. Dress is professional but casual. I prefer slacks for fieldwork and made the department loosen the dress code a few years ago for that reason, so you may wear them if you like. You’ll want to purchase a briefcase something like this.” She lifted a briefcase from the floor. Worn brown leather with a sloping top and brass clasp, very much like the one my father used to carry. I loved the idea of having my own.
“Okay,” I said.
Then she gave me a look of warning. “You’ll have a large caseload to balance,” she said. “I have sixty cases at the moment, but I won’t dump them all on you at once.”
“Where?” I asked. “What part of Raleigh?”
“Not Raleigh at all,” she said. “Grace County. All rural families.”
Grace County. “Oh,” I said. I hadn’t expected that.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, just a surprise. I’ve never really been to Grace County, except to pass through on the way to the beach.” It was a lie, but I didn’t want to talk about one more thing that might make me cry.
“It will mean a lot of driving. Are you comfortable with that?”
“I love driving,” I said. Where in Grace County? I wondered.
“I can tell you’re a passionate person, Miss Mackie, as your professor wrote in his letter,” she said. “I like that. Will the commute be a problem for you? Your office will be in Grace County, of course. In Ridley. That’s where mine is, but it was easier to interview candidates here.”
“No problem,” I said. “I have a car.”
“Where do you live?”
“Right now, Cameron Park
with my mother, but my fiancé—husband—and I will be living in Hayes Barton.”
“My,” she said, eyes wide. “How lovely.” She got to her feet and I stood as well. She led me to her office door.
“You remind me of myself in the early days,” she said, as she opened the door for me, “But I believe you’re a bit more … fragile than I was and that concerns me. This can be soul-searing work.”
“I can be very strong,” I said, wondering what had given me away. My knees had gone soft at the mention of Grace County.
“We’ll see,” she said. “Have a lovely wedding.”
I drove home feeling both happy and anxious. I wouldn’t call Robert at his office to tell him I had the job. I’d wait until I saw him tonight, and then I’d mention it in passing, as though it were no big deal. I didn’t want to invite his questions about it. But I had to tell someone, so I drove to the library and found my mother taking a break on one of the benches out front. She was reading a book and smoking a cigarette. I sat down next to her and she looked up in surprise.
“Guess who got a job!” I said.
“You got it?” She turned the book over on her lap. “The social work job?”
I nodded and reached for her cigarette to take a drag. I was an occasional smoker. Robert didn’t like it, so I never smoked around him. He loved his cigars, though.
“Well, congratulations, honey,” she said, even though I knew she had mixed feelings about me working.
“I’ll have my own clients,” I said, handing the cigarette back to her, “and I’ll be making a hundred and eighty-five dollars a month!”
“Where exactly will you be working?”