(The Story Thus Far: Born out of wedlock in 1929, Merritt Lane McGraw has spent nearly all of his first five years with his mother while she worked as a live-in maid and nanny for a wealthy young widow and her two daughters. Merritt’s mother, Evelyn, found herself in a torrid love affair with Viola Buckner, her employer, while the women’s daughters loved to treat Merritt as a little girl. Merritt was becoming more and more like a girl. To escape the demanding sexual encounters with her employer (which Evelyn feels is sinful) and to take her son away from the feminine atmosphere of the estate, Evelyn left the Buckners and returned home to live with her parents. She soon married Bob Casey, the library clerk and former high school classmate, and they have moved into a second floor apartment above a craft and sewing supply store. Merritt’s days of enjoying “girl time” appear to have ended now that there’s a man in the house.

(Merritt’s stepfather has gone off to war, and was killed in the terrible battle of Tarawa in November, 1943, posthumously being awarded the Navy Cross. Merritt’s mother meantime has taken a job in a war plant making parachutes, and Merritt takes over her dress-making business, which he finds to be a natural fit. Now a high school student, he finds comfort only in being a girl, but still seeks to fit in as a boy.

(Merritt has ventured out as a girl, and his natural femininity attracts the eyes of high school boys as well as a high school girl, with whom he goes to bed. Their innocence — typical for youth of that period — makes for limited sexual experiences, but with much passion, girl-to-girl.

(Yet, he tries to fit in as a boy, believing his hopes of ever living as a girl in the 1940s and1950s would be nearly impossible. His growing femininity has brought him into more adventures as a girl, confusing him even more as he tries to fit in at school. Merritt has completed his sophomore year of high school, having attended two proms, one as a boy and one as a girl, where his date’s infatuation for Marilyn has prompted Merritt to tell the boy the truth, only to be rudely rejected. His faith in the Catholic Church has been shattered when a priest he respected makes a “pass” and Merritt feels shame, not only for himself, but also for the priest. He is approaching high school graduation, still in a confused state of mind..)

Chapter 28: Graduation and a Job
After Evelyn married Bob Casey many years earlier, the couple had never arranged to have Merritt formerly adopted by his stepfather. It was more of an oversight than anything else, an oversight that should have been corrected when Casey entered in the Navy after Pearl Harbor. Thus, Merritt was never listed as a dependent for inheritance purposes by the U.S. Navy, and it further explained why the school system listed him as Merritt Lane McGraw and his mother as Evelyn M. Casey.

Thus, it was the name “Merritt Lane McGraw” that was called out on graduation night in the school’s auditorium, as the boy walked across the stage to pick up his diploma. Graduation time in the era was still a fairly solemn affair; there was no hooting and hollering as each candidate walked across the stage that has featured so many recent graduations.

For Merritt, the graduation was a subdued event; it meant the passing of a difficult three years, where he retired into the background to avoid notice and lessen the likelihood of being bullied or teased for his obvious effeminate mannerisms. His friends were few within the school, except for Bill Johnson and Sally Orlowski. His other friends, Donna Mae, Edith and Dolores all attended Our Lady of the Angels High School.

He and Sally hung out together often at school, both considering themselves outsiders; they were steady friends, but neither felt any form of romantic attachment. Sally constantly used Merritt as she would any close girl friend, as someone to whom she could share her on-and-off “crushes” about one boy or the other and how badly she felt treated by them.

“Am I boring you with all this?” Sally asked Merritt more than once as she prattled on and on.

“No, no, no, Sally. I only wish I could help you more, though,” he usually replied. He was being honest; he enjoyed that the girl placed so much trust in his friendship.

“It’s just that I don’t really have anyone else to talk to about this, and you’re so understanding.”

“I like being friends with you, Sally, you know that? Just close friends.”

“I know, and you’re so sweet. Not at all like other boys.”

She always finished these exchanges by leaning over a kissing him lightly on the cheek.

Merritt won three letters for performing on the tennis team, though his limited athletic skills never progressed very far. By his senior year, he did improve to play in the No. 2 singles slot and was elected captain, due most likely to his congeniality and friendliness with his teammates.

The annual ritual of getting classmates to sign yearbooks was of little importance to Merritt. To be sure, there were a few hurried scrawls by some to Merritt, usually limited to phrases like, “Miss you,” “Have fun this summer,” or “Great being with you in English.” On the days before graduation, Merritt grew sad as he watched the others eagerly signing each other’s books, while most of his pages remained empty of the teenage scrawls, while he was largely ignored. But, he reasoned, that was how he had wanted it to be during his high school years, to be largely ignored so that he would face few embarrassing situations.

Viola Buckner hosted a graduation party for Merritt at her home; it was a simple affair with salads and snacks and a decorated cake, attended by Merritt and his mother, Viola and her daughter, Beth; Dolores Graham and her mother, and Mary O’Hara, Viola’s former housekeeper. Merritt’s grandparents declined the invitation, mainly because of her father’s growing infirmities.

“To the prettiest boy in West High’s Class of ’47,” Viola said, in raising her champagne glass in a toast to Merritt’s graduation.

“Here! Here!” the group chimed in.

“And the prettiest girl, too,” exclaimed Beth, to the laughter of the others.

Merritt blushed, and Dolores rushed to his side, putting an arm around his waist, and “You would have been the prettiest too, Marilyn.”

The boy felt so at home among the women that evening. They all knew and accepted him for who he was: a lovely, sweet, caring girl in the body of a boy.

“Are you going on to college?” Mrs. Graham asked a bit later as they all enjoyed the cake.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “Even though I’ll be eligible for some assistance, I think we need the money now. I’ll be working for Ferrier and Holton, you know, the big law firm.”

“Oh that’s nice,” she said. “What’ll you be doing?”

“In the secretarial pool, I guess,” he said, his face growing red.

“Really,” she said. “That’s so nice. So many of the boys are going to work in the factories now and those jobs are so dirty and rough.”

“I guess I’m a pretty good typist and take dictation pretty good too.”

Merritt knew that he had a real talent in those skills, having finished with straight “A’s” in all of his secretarial classes.

*****
His hiring interview a week earlier at Ferrier and Holton, the largest law firm in town with over 100 attorneys, started as a disaster. He had been invited to apply for the secretarial pool at the law office, based on the recommendation of his teacher.

Arriving at the 14th Floor Bankers Building office of Ferrier and Holton, Merritt was overwhelmed by the opulent reception area, its dark wood sculptured finishes, high ceilings and fancy chandeliers. The scene was so austere and forbidding, he immediately began to panic; how would he fit into this place?

The well-coiffured receptionist, whose perfume scent filled the area, smiled as she looked at his letter containing his appointment. She did a double-take and a look of puzzlement filled her face.

“You got this letter?” she asked.

“Ah, yes? Did I come to the right place?” he asked.

“Yes . . . ah . . .” she paused. Then she continued, “ Ah . . . Mr. McGraw it is? OK. I’ll call Mrs. Leighton to tell her you’re here. Have a seat there with others. You’ll be called after the others ahead of you are interviewed. I’m sorry, but we’re running a little behind on our interviews.”

She pointed to a row of chairs, upon which sat two young women, apparently about 18 t o20 years old. They both wore stiff wool suits, even though it was late spring, and sensible pumps and nylons. They were seated with their hands primly in their laps. Merritt nodded to them; they acknowledged his greeting with similar nods and tight smiles. He too assumed the same prim, girlish posture as the other two, wondering whether he should look at one of the magazines on the coffee table and break the hushed decorum of the place.

Neither of the girls said a word, but when the name, “Miss Wilson,” was called, one of the girls rose to leave for her interview and Merritt took the occasion to get a copy of Time magazine and tried to concentrate on an article about arguments over the United Nations. His apprehension over the coming job interview however made it almost impossible to follow the words in the magazine.

“Mr. McGraw,” the receptionist announced after more than 20 minutes of waiting.

“Mrs. Leighton’s office is the third door on the left, sir,” she said, a bit of sarcasm in her voice, as she said the word, “sir.”

Merritt froze at her tone of voice, fearful of what that may portend.

The door to Mrs. Leighton’s room was slightly ajar, and Merritt knocked lightly on the door, and hearing a “come in,” he entered to find a tall, gray-haired lady with a severe, firm face, seated behind the desk.

“Give me your letter and sit down,” she commanded.

He did as ordered, sitting in a straight-backed wood chair, the only other chair in the office. It was an office without windows, and only minimal pictures adorning its dark walls. The room had a dark, foreboding nature.

“Now, why didn’t you tell us you were male?” she asked sternly, without any prefatory greeting.

“Ah, I don’t know,” he stumbled. “I didn’t think I had to say that.”

“Well, did you look at the letter you got?”

“Yes, ma’am, but I don’t . . .”

“Right here in the greeting line, it says, ‘Dear Miss McGraw.’ Didn’t you see that?”

She handed the letter over to Merritt, who grabbed it out of her hand, and glancing at it, noticed the greeting line. It did read, “Dear Miss McGraw.”

“I must not have noticed it,” he said.

“Well, this is a job for the typing pool, Mr. McGraw, and we’ve never hired a man. And we were never told you were male. Your name of Merritt sounded feminine. And we hire only girls for that pool.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, beginning to stand up, believing the interview was over and he would not be hired.

“SIT DOWN. I’m not done with you.” Her voice was firm and demanding. He sat down.

“Yes ma’am.”

Suddenly, the woman smiled, her face seemingly warming up.

“I’m willing to overlook your oversight for now, OK?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Your teacher at West gives you the highest marks. She said you were the best typist and could take dictation with the best of them, and I’ve always found the recruits she’s sent to me to be top notch. Maybe you are too, even if you’re male.”

Merritt nodded.

“Do you mind working among girls, as the only man?” she asked.

“No ma’am. I believe I can work with anyone.”

Mrs. Leighton nodded. She then gave Merritt some dictation and then sent him to a typing room, giving him 20 minutes to transcribe her remarks. Merritt found the exercise to be quite easy, since Mrs. Leighton dictated in an easy style with brief hesitations, helping him catch up if he lagged a bit.

He finished the transcription in 15 minutes and was told to wait in a third room, where three girls sat nervously, including the two girls who he had seen earlier.

The girl identified as “Miss Wilson” was the first to speak. “Hello, my name is Cynthia Wilson. Did you take the test from Mrs. Leighton too?”

“Yes, he nodded, I’m Merritt.”

The others introduced them selves, and Cynthia said, “I just finished under the time limit, but I may have made some mistakes. How did you do?”

“Ok, I guess I finished,” he said, speaking rather nonchalantly, realizing that the girls may resent the fact that he finished the exercise quite easily.

“You did? One of the other girls said. “I couldn’t.”

“Nor I,” said the third.

“Maybe they don’t expect us to,” he explained, suddenly realizing that he better downplay what he felt was his superior skill.

One by one the girls left as their names were called, leaving Merritt alone. He didn’t have to wait long. He was directed to return to see Mrs. Leighton.

“You were very good, Merritt,” she said. “We’d like to hire you, but you know you’ll be working in a woman’s job. Will that bother you?”

“I don’t think so,” he said tentatively.

“You may be viewed strangely by some here,” she continued. “We don’t want it to be a distraction, since the work we do here is very important and requires the deepest commitment.”

“I understand, Mrs. Leighton.”

“Well, this will be a precedent for us, a man in the typing pool,” the woman said. “Some of our attorneys may be shocked, but if you have any problems with anyone, I’m here to help, as long as you do your work diligently.”

So Merritt was hired at 90 cents an hour, with promises of three raises of 5 cents for each three month period until he reached $1.05 an hour, a princely sum in his mind. It was even more than his mother earned when she worked in the hosiery mill making parachutes.

*****
It was great that the “girls” in the typing pool has a late starting time of 9 a.m.; yet, the law firm was exceedingly strict about the typists being on time. Pay was docked, even in cases when the excuses may have been real, for lateness, and discharges were quick for repeat offenders.

That was stressed by Miss Bukowski, the lead typing girl, a middle-aged martinet of tiny stature and strong, firm voice.

“Who sent YOU here?” she asked Merritt as he turned up 15 minutes before the shift started on his first day on the job.

“I was told to report to you for the typing pool, Miss Bukowski.”

“YOU? What am I to do with you? Aren’t you a girl?”

“What?”

“You’re Merritt L. McGraw?” the woman inquired.

“Yes. I’m Merritt,” he said, his voice quivering before the face of the mean-visaged tiny woman.

“Well doesn’t that beat all?” the woman asked rhetorically. “I thought Merritt was a female name, but yes I can see you’re a man, I guess.”

Merritt stood in front of the woman, who was seated at her desk that was set on a platform near the entrance to a huge room, filled with desks, each one containing a large standard manual typewriter. There must have been 25 of them.

“Well, then, I can see you’re going to be one of my ‘girls’ then,” she said, her voice sarcastic in tone.

Merritt felt like turning on his heels and running from the room, charging for the elevator and riding down into the June morning. He had never been treated with such rudeness in his life; it was dispiriting, and he wondered whether this was how worklife is to be. He merely stood erect, before Miss Bukowski, awaiting his fate.

“You take that first desk, right in front, second from left,” she ordered. “Now.”

He went and sat down, sitting erect in perfect typing position, as taught in school, awaiting instructions. Slowly, but in almost a steady stream, his co-workers began entering the room, silently taking their seats at the desks. Merritt looked straight ahead, but couldn’t avoid meeting the eyes of each entering woman, nearly all young, with fresh-looking faces. Most showed surprise as they looked at him, but several smiled and gave a slight nod of welcome. Mostly, he felt they were either shocked or confused as to what he was doing among the girls of the typing pool. He noticed Cynthia Wilson enter and go to meet Miss Bukowski; she was briskly ordered to take the desk in the front room, on Merritt’s left.

“Good morning,” she whispered to him.

“Cynthia, right?” he inquired, in reply.

“Yes, you remember?”

“Merritt, here.”

She blushed. “I forgot, sorry.”

He heard hushed conversations about the room, as the girls entered, greeting each other. At one minute before nine, Miss Bukowski stood up and in his sharp, intense voice, announce: “Sixty seconds to start time and then I want to hear those typewriters purring.”

A couple girls came rushing into the room, racing to two of the few vacant desks.

Miss Bukowski scowled at them, her face telling of her disdain for the late-comers. She watched the two as they proceeded to sit down, and then said, her voice, loud and commanding:

“Before we get started today, I want to introduce two new girls . . . ah . . . two new employees . . . who’ll be joining our typing pool.” There was a slight titter among the girls, and a few hushed whispers.

“First we have Miss Cynthia Wilson, who’s a recent graduate from Thomas Jefferson High School. I believe there are other Jefferson High alumni in this group. Please stand up, Miss Wilson.”

There was polite applause, as Cynthia stood, turned back to face her co-workers and nodded, her face flushed. Cynthia was a plain girl, with a bland, round, almost cherubic face, but a kind and gentle smile.

“And, we have Mister . . . yes, Mister . . . Merritt McGraw from West High School,” she said, emphasizing the “Mister.”

Merritt stood, not awaiting orders from Miss Bukowski, and gave a quick nod to his new co-workers, sitting back down quickly.

“Now, girls, get to work, and Miss Wilson and Mister McGraw, you will go with Miss Chamberlain here to set you up for your work.”

A rather tall, husky woman of indeterminate age identified herself as Helen Chamberlain, and led Merritt and Cynthia out of the room, to a small office with several desks and typewriters.

Helen was a broad-hipped woman whose dark brown plain skirt may have been a size too tight and it scooted up her thighs as she sat. Merritt wondered why heavy women so often wore tight clothes, but any revulsion he felt for the woman was quickly overcome by her kind tone and, as it turned out, great competence in her secretarial abilities.

“Welcome to both of you, Merritt and Cynthia,” she began, as she directed them each to a desk.

“I hope you weren’t too upset with Miss Bukowski. She’s really very nice and very fair. She is strict about rules, and you’ll be wise to follow them to the letter. I’m to be your trainer during your first weeks here, and I think we’ll get along fine. You both come with high recommendations, I’m told.”

Merritt and Cynthia nodded almost in unison, pleased to see such an apparently kind person in charge of their training.

The training consisted mainly of showing the styles of communications they would be typing, along with some brief hints about receiving dictation. In many cases, they would be asked to type out briefs, and Helen Chamberlain stressed the importance form and details, along with accuracy. She said most typing would require an original and three copies, meaning the typist would use carbon paper and if “she” (that was the phrase Helen used) made a mistake, it meant erasing and typing over the error.

“Accuracy in typing is both time-saving and vital. In the time it takes you to correct a typo you could easily complete a whole paragraph. Haste makes waste, but dawdling won’t be tolerated.”

They learned that at first they would be copying from handwritten briefs written by the attorneys, but soon they’d be taking dictation, too. Eventually, the two would be assigned to be the principal typist for three or four specific attorneys.

“These jobs can be very demanding,” Helen concluded. “The law firm pays well but it requires strict allegiance and loyalty. We hope you’ll be rewarded well by your time and Ferrier and Holton.”

*****
The typing pool had a 45 minute lunch period, again strictly observed from 12:15 to 1 p.m., unless you were working with an attorney who kept you on the job over the lunch hour.

Cynthia suggested Merritt join her in lunch at a cafeteria that was located in the basement of the Bankers’ Building.

“So what brings you into the typing pool, Merritt?” the girl asked as they were seated, both with tuna salad sandwiches and Cokes. Each paid 45 cents for the lunch: 35 cents for the sandwich and 10 cents for the Coke.

“I took it in high school and did pretty good at it,” he said. “How about you?”

“Same here, but also my mom told me it was important to get a job which pays well and has some security. And they’ll always need people who can type, right?”

“And the need for shorthand will always be there,” he said.

“But Merritt, may I ask this? Why you? A boy in this work.”

He blushed at the question, realizing he was falling back into the girlish habit of playing with his hair, even though he had trimmed the hair back to a more normal, male length. He was trying mightily to do away with his feminine mannerisms, but he continued to lapse into them.

“I shouldn’t have asked that,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s OK. I know it’s odd, but I found I was good typist and I like it and I don’t feel like working in a factory. Most of my friends got jobs in the breweries or places like Elliott Foundries or the Car factory. I’m not cut out for that, I guess.”

“I hope we can be friends, Merritt,” she said, seeking to bring an end to the topic.

He smiled and nodded, turning back to his sandwich. He realized he liked Cynthia, who was a bit chubby, with a round, softness that appealed to him. She had pudgy hands with short wide fingers, in contrast to his slender, tapered fingers.

“I’m sure we can be,” he said. “We can protect each other from Miss Bukowski.”

She laughed. Merritt hoped he had found a friend.

*****
After a week’s orientation, Merritt and Cindy entered the typing pool, this time finding their assigned desks to be the same ones they occupied on the first day on the job, at the front of the room, where, he later learned, all new employees were placed so that Miss Bukowski could keep a studied eye on them. Before returning to the pool, Merritt had heard that his hiring as the first man ever to hold such a job at Ferrier and Holton had been the subject of wide discussion.

From the whispering that spread about the room on his first day after orientation, he knew he was center stage in the minds of the girls. He speculated most likely considered him to be homosexual; perhaps some others might have even considered him straight and “cute.” He knew he had to do what he did in high school: try to stay focused on his work and not to make a spectacle of himself.

“They treat us like shit around here.” The comment came in a hushed voice from one of the more senior typists, a young woman named Donna, whose pock-marked cheeks marred what could have been a lovely face.

“I know I’m really tired at the end of the day,” Cindy agreed.

Merritt had joined the two other typists during their 45-minute lunch period at a nearby drugstore lunch counter. Every so often, Merritt joined the other two to eat outside of the office building. Donna was one of the few more senior employees who befriended the two newcomers, a fact that was gnawing on Merritt. He felt he was ostracized because he was a man and that in her friendship with him, Cindy too had been treated as an outsider.

Perhaps it was Donna’s marred face that alienated her from the other typists, but Merritt noted there seemed to be no animosity shown toward her by the others. He soon came to realize that Donna — who might have been approaching 30, an age that almost certainly doomed a woman to a permanent single life — may have been merely befriending them out of kindness or mere curiosity.

Donna took a bite out of her tuna salad sandwich, chewed on it a bit noisily, exposing crudeness in her life style, and then said: “You know, if those lawyers don’t mark you as a future mistress, they’ll push you and push you.”

“And blame you for all their own mistakes,” Cindy echoed.

She had complained recently about one attorney, a Mr. Kosgrove, who complained to Miss Bukowski that Cindy had screwed up the typing of a petition he wanted.

“It was a federal court petition he wanted to file, but he told me it was a state court deal, so I used that format, and it caused him to miss a filing deadline, but he’s a partner in the firm, so what he says goes,” she complained.

“What did the ‘witch’ say to you about that?” Donna asked, using the favored term for their supervisor, Miss Bukowski.

“Actually, she was nice about it,” Cindy replied. “She merely said that Mr. Kosgrove was often vague about things and that it’s up to the typist to double check or ask questions.”

“Oh I’ve done work for him,” Donna said. “He’s just sloppy. That’s why Miss Bukowski didn’t bawl you out. She knows what a lousy attorney he is.”

Cindy smiled. “I got the feeling he was looking at my breasts all the time he was dictating.”

“That’s probably why he screwed up so badly,” Donna said. “He’s known as always on the prowl for the young girls, like you.”

Cindy blushed. It was apparent that her plump young figure must have brought her much attention from the male attorneys in the office. In fact, out of more than 100 lawyers in the firm, there were only three females, all assigned to routine probate work.

“Kosgrove? Drake Kosgrove?” Merritt asked.

“Yes,” Cindy said.

“I was just told I was assigned to work with him,” he said. “They took my assignment with Mr. Willingham from me, and I liked him. He was good.”

Cindy smiled; indicating that she would now be doing work for Mr. Willingham.

“The ‘witch’ must have switched us,” he said. “You’ll like Willingham.”

“I’m sorry, Merritt, and you got Kosgrove,” she said, sincerely. “I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy.”

“At least you’re not a girl, so he won’t hit on you, Merritt,” Donna said. They all laughed, and Merritt realized it was one of the first times in his life that he was grateful for not being a girl.

Donna explained that gossip around the office was that Kosgrove’s most recent liaison with one of the office secretaries had caused problems in his marriage.

“I think his wife wants to divorce him, and Kosgrove is heir to the Kosgrove family fortune, so I think the pressure was one to no longer assign young ladies to work with him,” she said. “So you being a man meant you’d get the duty there. Good luck!”

“I guess I’ll need it, unless he likes boys, too,” Merritt said, to giggles from the other two.

*****
In mid-afternoon, Merritt was summoned to Kosgrove’s office on the 15th Floor, where the partners all had offices with dark, varnished walnut and shiny brass fittings. A receptionist on the floor looked at him quizzically as he entered the room from the banistered stairwell. The lawyer’s office occupied the top four floors of the building, and had in inside carpeted stairway linking the floors.

“And what can I do for you?”

“I’m Mr. Kosgrove’s typist. Merritt McGraw.”

“Typist?”

“Yes, I’ve been told he wants me.”

“Ok,” she said, looking him over, her face still betraying confusion. “Just a minute.”

She spoke into the phone briefly, then hung up, turning to Merritt. “It’s the fourth door on the right. He’s waiting for you.”

By now, Merritt was shivering, in spite of the warmth in the building. He felt the tuna salad sandwich from lunch still churning in his stomach, aggravated by his anxiety. He tried to walk in a manly stride toward the lawyer’s office, afraid his somewhat lilting gait might emphasize his girliness. He wrapped lightly on the closed door to Kosgrove’s office, still shivering.

“Come in.” The voice was gruff.

It was a huge office, well-appointed, with law books lining one side of the room and a small bar the other side. An oversized leather couch and two side chairs were gathered around a glass coffee table at one end of the room.

Seated at a desk before a large window, its drapes partially pulled to hold out the afternoon sun which was leaving a slit of blinding light pouring into the room, was a grey haired, somewhat pudgy man with a red face.

“So you’re my new typist. Sit there.” He pointed to a straight-backed wood chair at the side of his desk.

“Yes sir. My name is Merritt McGraw, sir.”

Merritt sat, as commanded, in the chair. He sat primly, hands in lap, his feet firmly on the floor, and his legs tightly together. As Merritt grew close to the man, he traced a scent of peppermint smell, mingled with what smelled much like gin. The man’s a drinker, he thought, explaining his red face. He’d seen the same red, flushed face on his grandfather, whom he knew liked to drink.

“A boy as a typist? Never heard of that,” the attorney mumbled derisively.

“Yes, sir, but I finished at the top of my class at West High,” he said.

“Well I hope you’re better than that slut Cindy they sent me. She’s was such a dunce. But what tits.”

“Yes, sir,” Merritt said. “I’m sure she was doing her best.”

“Her best would have been in bed, I think,” he said, with a conspiratorial “good ol’ boy” wink.

Merritt remained silent, failing to fall in with the lawyer’s apparent locker room humor. He hated the crudeness of some men when they talked about women.

“Ah, you don’t like that, Master McGraw,” he said. “You must be planking her, eh? Is she a good lay?”

“I wouldn’t know sir, but I know she’s a good girl and also a very good typist,” Merritt said, daring to defend Cindy in front of this crude lawyer.

“You are! You are planking her. Good for you, young man.”

Kosgrove sounded triumphant, and began laughing out loud, a laugh that nauseated Merritt as he demeaned both himself and his friend Cindy.

“Sir, what did you want me for?” Merritt demanded, once the laughter had died down.

“Ah, yes,” Kosgrove said. “I can see you mean all business, young man . . . ah . . . yes . . . here it is. We’ve got to do a short brief for the Kuhn Bros. case. I presume you take shorthand.”

“Yes sir. You may begin anytime.” Merritt crossed his legs and brought out his shorthand pad.

The dictation was all over the lot. Kosgrove rarely dictated complete sentences, peppering it with lots of “ahs” and “ohs” and Merritt felt he’d have the dickens of a time making sense of his notes; yet, he was able to get a sense of what the lawyer wanted to say. Maybe, he thought, he could write it up so it would pass muster.

Miss Bukowski summoned him to her office as he returned to his desk and asked him how it had gone with Mr. Kosgrove.

“Well, he was hard to take dictation from,” he said.

“I know dear,” the supervisor said. “He’s one of the most difficult. Do you think you can write it up to make it useable?”

“I think so, Miss Bukowski. I got a pretty idea of what he was trying to say.”

She smiled. “Good. I know I didn’t do you any favors in assigning him to you, but I had to do it. I’m asking you to work it out the best way you can, and don’t hesitate to ask me for help. Also, Donna can help you, too; she’s worked with him and she really knows her law, too.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will, dear,” she said. “You’ve made a good impression here. Maybe we’ll hire a few more men.”

“Thank you,” he said, leaving the room, grateful for the sudden sign of sympathy and warmth from the “witch.”

*****
Merritt told his mother about his new assignment with Mr. Kosgrove that night while the two cleaned up after supper. For both of them, the nightly dishwashing and cleanup chores was a time to share and talk. They both had shared their most intimate secrets; he hid nothing from his mother, and as far as he could determine she hid nothing from him. She had told of her intimacy with Viola, as he shared often his own desire to be a woman.

“We have each other,” his mother said once.

“I know, mom,” he said. That night they hugged together for a long time, crying together, but feeling comfort in each other’s arms.

Evelyn froze at hearing the name “Kosgrove.” Merritt could see she almost dropped the plate she was washing.

“Kosgrove? Drake Kosgrove?” she said.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“So he’s working now at Ferrier and Holton. I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, and he’s a partner.” He pondered her interest in the man.

“Oh?” his mother said.

“You know him, mom?”

“Ah, Kosgrove,” she said haltingly. “No, but he’s from a prominent family. Just heard of him.”

Merritt let the matter drop, and Merritt felt that for the first time in his life his mother was not being fully honest with him.

*****
Evelyn was snuggled securely in the arms of her lover, Viola, a few nights later, relishing in the feeling of the older woman and the soapy, fresh smell of her firm body. Viola’s calloused hands were kneading Evelyn’s own fleshy tummy and breasts, and Evelyn’s nipples were growing firm and taunt when she heard Viola ask:

“Something’s bothering you, Evie. What is it? You can tell your hubby.”

Through the years of their love-making, Viola had assumed the role of husband, while Evelyn relaxed into the comforting role of submissive wife. Evelyn once said theirs was a relationship “made in Heaven,” although she was sure the priests might not agree to such a definition; to them it would be a blasphemy.

Evelyn’s passion slackened with the question, and she drew apart from her lover, turning on her side, looking at Viola.

“Oh I don’t know what to do, Vi,” she said. “Merritt’s working at the Ferrier law firm you know.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, guess who is working with?”

Viola said, nothing and ran her hand through Evelyn’s hair, as if encouraging her to continue.

“Drake Kosgrove,” Evelyn finally said. “Can you believe it?”

“Drake? My oh my. That is a switch.”

“And apparently Drake is still the same old Drake, chasing young girls, and that’s why they assigned Merritt to work with him, since he’s a man. And, Drake’s apparently no fun to work with. He’s arrogant and not much of an attorney.”

“I would guess he’s kind of lazy too.”

“Oh my yes, Merritt says he has to construct most of the filings, since Drake never knows how to follow court procedures. But, he’s a partner and the firm wants to keep Kosgrove Industries Account so they must tolerate him.”

“And Merritt has no idea that Drake’s his father? Right?” Viola continued.

“No. I never told him when he asked. As far as he knows, his father left town after learning I was pregnant.”

“And you want to know whether you should tell him now?” Viola asked.

“Yes. I don’t know what to do, dear.”

Merritt had been born in 1929 in Green Bay and baptized there. Thus, all of his birth records were in Brown County, but Evelyn didn’t recall whether the father was even listed. She and her parents had decided not to pursue Drake for support, since Evelyn had not been married at the time. The family was very quiet about the details of Merritt’s birth, out of shame for out-of-wedlock births at the time. Even though her parents were nearly starving at the time, their Irish pride seemed to block them from seeking out the Kosgrove family for help. They even feared the Kosgrove’s might try to take Merritt from them, since Evelyn would have been viewed as an unfit mother. Evelyn now, 18 years later, remembered her father saying, “We can’t fight the Kosgroves. They’ll pay off the judge and all we’ll get is shame.”

Love-making ended for the evening, and the two discussed at length what Evelyn should do about informing Merritt.

“Eventually, he should know, Evie,” Viola said.

“I know, but from what Merritt tells me Drake is just as despicable now as he was when we made love.”

“I thought you said he had some redeeming qualities.”

“Well, yes. Sometimes, he was considerate, and even understanding,” Evelyn agreed. “But when he was with his friends, he always tried to show off. But I was so young then and didn’t know my own mind, I guess. Outside of Bob, he was the only man I ever made love to.”

“Except for me,” Viola said, a hint of laughter in her voice.

“Yes, dear hubby,” Evelyn said, kissing the other woman playfully on the lips.

“I think you better tell Merritt the truth, honey.”

Evelyn nodded in agreement, but wondered how best to tell her son about his father. Evelyn delayed and delayed the inevitable, however, and much of the summer would be gone before Merritt would learn the truth of his birth.

(To be Continued)