Two weeks later the scout who’d set the Australian possibility in motion came through. Ethan was drafted into the Melbourne Aces. From October through April season they’d provide housing and living expenses. He’d never flown, could barely navigate his path to someday. Now he had a baby coming. Since we’d met, we’d barely spent a day apart. I’d never lived alone but I could not be the reason he gave up his dream.
I made lists for him, hauled his clothes to the Laundromat, showed him how to fold, roll and pack to fit his duffle bags.
“Jesus, let me breathe! I can do it,” he demanded.
“Ethan! How many times have I jammed my crap into duffels and moved?” I demanded he take his blazer. “Dressing well builds confidence.”
“Thank you, Mrs Birnbaum but ball players don’t give a damn about clothes.”
“You’re not just any ball player. You might have a newspaper interview or a sports dinner,” I threw back, determined he feel cared for, an emotion he barely knew.
We drove to the airport in our crappy car, no air conditioning or heat, the ground visible from the floor boards. The engine stuttered all the way to Lambert Field – St. Louis International drop off. We joked about our late spring due dates: mine for our baby within days of his return. “Stay strong, Emma. Have faith.” His voice broke as he whispered thanks into his hug.
This would get me through, I thought, as he disappeared into the sea of travellers. Loving another person terrified me.
Per usual I was on a mission, this time determined to find a job before my pregnancy was obvious. I threw out our Halloween pumpkin and answered a classified ad in the local paper for an advertising sales position at start-up magazine Fairfield Monthly. I fabricated credentials, elaborated on my Beehive sales history, and submitted my resume with Mrs Birnbaum’s letter. They asked for an interview. I purchased a briefcase, black high heels, and arrived at the office praying they wouldn’t fact check. My life was a shell game I’d been playing since middle school. I could do this.
Turns out they were under the gun to get the first edition out and woefully behind schedule. They offered me the job on the spot at a flat monthly rate of one-hundred-and-sixty dollars plus ten percent commission once I made the audited goal.
Vickie Spaulding, older than me with twenty years’ experience, served as the senior rep. All accounts were split between us. Hers included anything political and high profile, banks and car dealerships to schools and municipal offices. No surprise I was assigned gas stations, bars, smoke shops, and every other establishment most likely to never advertise in anything let alone a new cool magazine. The deck was stacked against me but I worked relentlessly. My life depended on it.
I dressed for success but more important, I had the smarts to recognise my customers as variations of folks who sat at the bars with Dad, or spritzed their wrists at The Beehive. My accent, grammar and mannerisms were theirs. Managers and owners listened, considered my points. I morphed into the Cold Call Queen, amazed the publishers and raised a bit of healthy jealously in Vickie. In no time sales increased. I exceeded their expectations and mine.
I was not, however, as successful with written work and business protocol. “All this carelessness will kill you with clients,” Vickie pointed out incessantly. “I’m bringing in a shitload of new accounts.”
“Swearing like a sailor won’t get you promoted beyond the class of clients you’re so successful with.”
“They’re important!”
“Emma, of course they are, but that’s not the point. I’ve got twenty years’ experience on you. Frankly, most employers wouldn’t bother to tell you what your issues are. Don’t get your hackles up. Listen.”
I had no clue what hackles were and my blue language had always raised reprimands, but the rest wasn’t carelessness. I shrugged, too embarrassed to explain ignorance had me around the ankles. I needed her skills and polish to save Ethan and me. From then on, I covertly studied Vickie’s reports and office memos, not for content but the way information was presented. Soon enough sales provided a steady cash flow, more than paid the rent, and allowed me to afford a newer, safer car.
My life-long street smarts and bravado kept me comfortable as I adjusted to the neighbourhood, and solitude. Our very own chaos-free apartment! I exchanged letters faithfully, and every two weeks Ethan called from the baseball club office line to report on playing, pitching and all things Australian, mate. Together we were making it work. The holidays came and went. I focused on my job and spent enough free time with my sister so she wouldn’t feel I’d abandoned her. Mischief came out and we attended together. Gen clapped and cheered when Ethan appeared at the drive-in larger than life. True to my personality, I sank lower in my theatre seat re-wallowing in my location day angst.
One damp, miserably chilly morning during my typical last-minute race-around, I tripped down the front steps. I swore a blue streak, wiped the mud off my coat and pulled on a fresh pair of pantyhose. I kept my morning sales calls, but by noon I felt lightheaded and frightened. Dreaded abdominal pain began then deepened. I finally drove myself to the hospital and miscarried in the Emergency Room.
Ethan could not know. Emotional upheaval would destroy his concentration, perhaps sink him into I-should-have-been-there or worse, Emma needs me. I dealt with it alone. Fairfield Monthly gave me a week with pay to recover.
I returned to sympathetic co-workers and job security which helped. During the day I focused on my ambition and drive. But at night I shredded my list of baby names, sobbed for the child who would have loved me, and the fantasy family I’d imagined. Loneliness and anxiety smothered me in grief. The miscarriage deepened my angst. Could Ethan and I survive as a couple without the baby? We had explosive chemistry. We needed each other. Could that be enough?
I embraced retail therapy and transformed our apartment into cosy digs neither of us had ever had. It oozed style, right down to pots of daffodils on the front porch. I was back to steady on my feet. In April, just before he concluded his Down Under season, I wrote him about my ordeal so he’d to absorb the news without hitting him cold when he saw me.
A few weeks later, heart in my throat, I watched Ethan emerge through the airport doors. Sex, our primary mode of communication, was the safest place to start and surest way to connect. Despite his jet lag we stayed in bed till dinnertime and even managed to talk about the miscarriage.
Beyond sex, he made me happy and bolstered my confidence. I couldn’t put it into words then, but he gave me a sense of self. I provided the resourcefulness he lacked. We needed each other whether he knew it or not.
We mulled over our situation for the next few days. We should stay married, Ethan concluded. His career showed enough promise that in three weeks he was scheduled to leave for spring training in Phoenix for the first of many teams within Independent Leagues. He’d be bussed along the circuit through September. We planned out the next six months beginning with serious birth control. He’d keep working on his pro ball dream; I’d work on my career and support us financially.
He put his arms around me. “Emma, we’ll help each other get out from under our shitty backgrounds. I swear we can make a future—baseball world for me, Beautyland for you.” I loved him even more.
Shortly after he left for Arizona, I spotted a newspaper ad for models. As a blonde with enough height and a decent figure, I hoped local side gigs could supplement our income. I was naïve and clueless but managed an interview scheduled at a private house. A woman answered the door, introduced herself as Beth Komanski, and ushered me in. She could have been a brothel madam for all I knew.
In fact Beth was under contract to most established beauty and fragrance companies to find people to execute special events or sell to customers during high traffic times at high-end department stores. That May she was looking for a few young women to promote the seasonal Clinique products at Saks. After an hour of discussing job requirements and my qualifications, she offered me a trial assignment. I left her house with a white lab coat uniform and a manual of regulations. After a week of nightly study, I was an expert on all things Clinique. The next time I entered Saks I held a tray of products and wore a grin from Plaza Frontenac to Brucknerfield.
“Excuse me. Allow me to show you the skincare product that will change your life.”
“Welcome to Clinique. Today only, with any purchase of twenty-eight dollars, you’ll receive a bonus gift worth sixty-five…”
I talked to everyone. When I’d sold enough to kick my confidence into high gear, I veered from the usual model station and strolled around the department creating a bit more excitement and more sales.
The following week Beth called me to inquire about my experience.
“I’m thrilled,” I told her. “Loved the work. It was fun. I’d love more assignments.”
“I hoped so. You’re what I’m looking for. If you’re willing to make a career change, I can guarantee ten dollars an hour. Thirty hours a week, more during holidays.”
“No shit?”
She laughed. “No shit.”
The next day I gave Fairfield Monthly my two weeks’ notice.
Vickie presented me with Strunk and White’s Elements of Style, Letitia Baldridge’s The Complete Guide to Executive Manners, and a business writing guide. Fifteen days later I started my first official assignment at the very same Christmas Eve Saks Fifth Avenue. It felt like full circle.
I didn’t know a rough from a fairway but golf season and OPEN men’s cologne kick-started my persuasive style. I sold it as though Oakmont and Winged Foot were on my bucket list. My sales soared. Big names from Ralph Lauren and Giorgio Beverly Hills to Halston soon called Beth to book me at their counters. I worked to prove I was capable, unwittingly breaking sales records for my assigned brands. With my extra money I booked a surprise visit to Phoenix.
We barely got beyond, “Babe! Geeze, I wish you’d called first. …Of course I’m glad to see you. With having to concentrate and all, it’s not a great time…”
