Free This Dame for Hire by Sandra Scoppettone Page A

here.”
    “Of course ya do, sorry. Ya wouldn’t be doin your job if ya didn’t, right?”
    “That’s precisely right. Good day, miss.” He walked quickly to the door and opened it for an older woman in a dark fur coat, her cheeks rouged so she looked like a puppet.
    “May I get you a cab, Mrs. Skeffington?”
    “No thank you, Chester. I’m going to walk. It’s such a lovely day.”
    “Yes, madam.” He touched the bill of his cap as she turned and started down Park.
    Should I or shouldn’t I? I decided I would do it, but I had to make it look good for old Chester. I turned and peered uptown, then east, and when I saw the light was in my favor, I scurried across the avenue and started downtown, the whole time with my eyes on Mrs. Skeffington.
    At Fifty-seventh she crossed to my side and headed down the block. I followed.
    There were a lot of people on Fifty-seventh, so I didn’t have to be too careful shadowing her. We crossed Madison and about two yards in she went into a store. Only I saw it wasn’t a store when I got there. It was a gallery, and it was up some stairs. The glass in the door was clear, and I waited until she’d disappeared at the first landing before I went in.
    By the time I reached the landing she was going in another door. There was a sign on it that said: GEORGE BAILEY, FINE ART . I’d never been in one of these galleries, so I didn’t know what to expect. I went to the Met when I wanted to look at pictures. Fact was I went to it a lot. I guess I could say afternoons at the Met had saved my bacon more than once. Being there in the quiet, looking at paintings guys did a long time ago, calmed me down and got my mind going in a straight line instead of all over the lot.
    I waited a minute and then I opened the door of the Bailey Gallery. Inside, the walls were white and hung with pictures the likes of which I’d never seen. Every one of them looked like a blank canvas. But the name of the show was above the so-called paintings. White on White.
    There was a girl at a desk with sleek black hair who gave me the once-over, and Mrs. Skeffington seemed to be the only customer. Her back was to me as she stared at a picture that I could now see had white paint on the canvas. I didn’t get it.
    But I sauntered over to stand next to her, not too close, but it wasn’t a very big room, so I was close enough. I was looking at the picture next to the one she was looking at. But I could’ve been looking at any picture cause far as I could tell they were all the same.
    From the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. S. turn and look at me, so I turned to look at her. She smiled and was starting to turn away when I said, “Mrs. Skeffington, what a surprise.” I put out my hand, which she took in the tips of her soft gloved fingers. Carefully, I said, “How are you?”
    I could see she was flummoxed, but she wasn’t letting on. She was a fine-boned lady with eyes that had a sparkle, like Christmas tree lights.
    She said, “I’m fine and how are you?”
    “Just fine, thanks. Mrs. Skeffington, I can see you aren’t sure you remember me.”
    “Oh, no. Of course I do. I’m simply at a loss as to where we last saw one another.”
    “It was the Rockefeller party.”
    “Oh, of course, of course. How silly of me. The Rockefeller party.”
    “The last one.”
    “Yes, yes. I recall now.” She fussed with the collar of her brown fur coat.
    “That was some shindig, wasn’t it?”
    “Shindig?”
    “I mean it was a lovely party.” I almost blew it, and reminded myself that a Mrs. Skeffington wouldn’t talk like me. I needed to tone up my chat.
    “Shindig,” she said again.
    I smiled. “Oh, it’s a word I picked up last week at the Mellons. The boy used it. I thought it had a nice ring to it.”
    “Yes, yes it does. Well, are you a devotee?” She held out her arm and swept her black-gloved hand, as though it was a wand, toward the pictures.
    “First time,” I said.
    “How did you hear about