Rosemary had always had trouble asking, and now asking was out of the question. How could she tell her parents that Martin had quit his job? It wasn’t even their derision that bothered her—they couldn’t think worse of him than they already did. It was their pity that would choke her. Poor Rosemary, who could have done so much more. Who could have been so much more. Now every misfortune confirmed for her parents all of the horrible things they had first said to her, and about her, when she told them she was pregnant. If she told them that Martin had quit his job and that they were on relief, the weight of their pity would obliterate her.
Of course Martin would be humiliated that she had even set foot in the relief office, but why did she always have to be the one who kept a level head and made the right decisions—the one everyone counted on, at the same time that they chided her for being too serious, for not knowing how to have fun? This was where her mother’s voice chimed in: Because the one time you thought that you could let go, give in, have fun—look what happened. Martin said he had a plan, but she didn’t want a plan. She wanted a husband who understood his responsibilities to his family. To his children. To her.
A WOMAN CALLED out, “Dempsey! Four-oh-one!” It took a moment for Rosemary to remember: yes, that was her name and that was her number. She gathered her purse and stared for a moment at her hand, which felt curiously empty. Kate’s hand was always in hers when they were out of the house. The woman who had called her number waved a clipboard to indicate the office where Rosemary was to sit. In the room, a different woman was turning the crank on a desk-mounted pencil sharpener. She removed the pencil, now pointy as a knitting needle, stuck in another blunt-nosed pencil, and churned the handle: another needle.
“I just got this thingamabob and I love it,” she said. “It does exactly what it’s supposed to, every time.”
“It’s very nice,” Rosemary said.
“You wouldn’t believe how fast we go through these things.” She held up a sharpened pencil. “We get people coming in here every day, sitting right where you are now. Wears out the pencils, then it wears out the sharpeners, then it wears out the people doing the sharpening.”
Rosemary wasn’t sure whether it was meant lightheartedly or as some kind of accusation. Either way, the woman stared at her without smiling. Her hair was combed into a tight bun and although perspiration dotted her forehead, over her shoulders was draped a pale blue cardigan, secured at the neck with a silver chain. In the corner of the room an electric fan spun languidly, faintly scraping its cage with each rotation. The air smelled of dust and old paper livened up only by a hint of mimeograph ink. The woman tapped a tall stack of papers on her desk with the pencil. Rosemary recognized her own handwriting, upside down, on the form at the top of the pile.
Maybe the gloves had been too much.
As if reciting a script for a role she had grown tired of playing, the woman introduced herself as Miss Costigan. She would be Rosemary’s relief agent. Any question Rosemary had was to be directed to her and her only. Attempting to contact another relief agent, either in this office or in another relief office elsewhere, would only create confusion, and would be sure to delay the answer to any queries that Rosemary might have. It would also require duplication of effort, which was wasteful, and this was not an agency that looked kindly on waste. Waste would not be rewarded. Did Rosemary understand?
Rosemary understood.
Miss Costigan explained that before any assistance was made available, an investigation had to be undertaken. Not only would there be a home visit to ascertain the family’s level of need, but the family’s willingness to help themselves had to be ascertained as well. Did Rosemary understand?
Well, not exactly, she said.
“You would be surprised,” Miss Costigan said, “or perhaps you would not, to learn that there are those who apply for relief who have no real need. Goldbrickers, we call them. And there are also people who apply for relief who are very needy but have no intention of seeking or accepting work of any kind. These people we call freeloaders. So the first question, Mrs. Dempsey, is whether you are a goldbricker or a freeloader.”
“I can assure you,” Rosemary said, “that I’m neither of those things. My husband and I are decent people who’ve fallen on hard times.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” she said through a sour smile that did not appear happy. “Then you won’t have any problems with the investigation. We have your address and that’s a starting point, but we’ll need more information before we can really get started.”
“What sort of information?”
“Next of kin, for both you and your husband. Often those closest to you are the best source of help in troubled times. Maybe you have a rich uncle who could do for you what you’re asking the government to do instead?”
Rosemary’s stomach sank. She tried to picture Miss Costigan sitting in her parents’ parlor, on the divan, as her father poured Scotch into an ice-filled tumbler.
“And we’ll need to contact your husband’s most recent employer.”
“My husband lost his job. That’s why I’m here.”
“Yes, but why did he lose it? That’s one of the questions we’ll want to ask. Men lose jobs for all sorts of reasons, only some of which they tell their wives. Is your husband a drinker, for instance? Does he pull his weight? Is he a goldbricker or a freeloader at work? All of these things can help us determine his prospects for finding another job.”
He’s an occasional drinker who mostly pulls his weight, Rosemary thought. Except for when he quits his job. “My husband is a very diligent man, Miss Costigan.”
“And what line of work is he in?”
“He was—he is—a musician.”
“That’s his job? He gets paid for that?”
Rosemary had heard variations on this theme plenty of times—boy, had she ever. It was a much easier question when the answer was yes. “He’s quite talented,” she said.
Miss Costigan made a note on the page in front of her. “But he’s open to other forms of employment?” She spoke without looking up. “Because I can tell you, we don’t see many jobs for musicians.”
“I thought the Federal Music Project could be a possi—”
“Budget just got cut for that one,” she said.
“Or the Federal Theatre Project. He can play piano, clarinet, saxophone—”
“You don’t want to go within a mile of that one,” Miss Costigan said. “First off, it’s full of Reds. And between you, me, and the pencil sharpener, the word is the whole project will be kaput by the end of the month.”
Rosemary looked down at her hands. She’d thought this was going to turn out a bit better. “I’m sure there are many other things he could do.”
“Regardless, we’ll need to talk to his last employer. So I’ll need names, addresses, phone numbers—all of it. And then I’ll need the same for his parents—”
“My husband’s parents are deceased.”
Miss Costigan looked up from her note-taking. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “But we’ll need to see death certificates for confirmation.”
“He’s an immigrant,” Rosemary said. “His parents lived—they died—in Ireland.”
“We’ll need proof of his citizenship status, then. I assume that you’re from here? You don’t sound like you’re from somewhere else.”
“Yes, I’m an American.”