"But you came to the junior and senior proms with Michael Halloran," the Reverend Mother said. "And you play tennis with him every Saturday.
Isn't he your boy friend?"
Jennie laughed.
"No, Reverend Mother. He's not my boy friend, not that way." She laughed again, this time to herself, as she thought of the lanky, gangling youth whose only romantic thoughts were about his backhand. "He's just the best tennis player around, that's all."
Then she added, "And someday I'm going to beat him."
"You were captain of the girl's tennis team last year?" Jennie nodded. "You won't have time to play tennis at St. Mary's," the Reverend Mother said. Jennie didn't answer. "Is there anything you'd rather be than a nurse?"
Jennie thought for a moment.
Then she looked up at the Reverend Mother. "I’d like to beat Helen Wills for the U.S. tennis championship."
The Reverend Mother began to laugh.
She was still laughing when Sister Cyril came in with the tea.
She looked across the desk at the girl.
"You'll do," she said.
"And I have a feeling you’ll make a very good nurse, too."
3.
Tom Denton knew there was something wrong the moment he came up to the window for his pay envelope.
Usually, the paymaster was ready with a wisecrack, like did he want him to hold the envelope for his wife so that the Saturday-night beer parlors wouldn't get it?
But there was no wisecrack this time, no friendly raillery, which had been a part of their weekly meeting for almost fifteen years.
Instead, the paymaster pushed the envelope under the slotted steel bars quickly, his eyes averted and downcast.
Tom stared at him for a moment. He glanced quickly at some of the faces on the line behind him.
They knew, too. He could see it from the way they were looking at him.
An odd feeling of shame came over him.
This couldn't be happening to him. Not after fifteen years.
His eyes fell and he walked away from the window, the envelope in his hand.
Nobody had to tell him times were bad.
This was 1931 and the evidence was all around him.
The families on relief, the bread lines, the endless gray, tired faces of the men who boarded his car every morning.
He was almost out of the barn now. Suddenly, he couldn't wait any longer and he ducked into a dark corner to open the pay envelope. He tore at it with trembling fingers.
The first thing that came to his hand was the dreaded green slip.
He stared at it unbelievingly.
It must be a mistake. They couldn't mean him.
He wasn't a one-year or two-year man, not even a five-year man.
He had seniority.
Fifteen years.
They weren't laying off fifteen-year men. Not yet.
But they were.
He squinted at the paper in the dim light. Laid off. What a bitter irony.
That was the reason given for all the pay cuts – to prevent layoffs. Even the union had told them that.
He shoved the envelope into his pocket, trying to fight the sudden sick feeling of fear that crawled around in his stomach.
What was he to do now?
All he knew was the cars. He'd forgotten all about everything else he'd ever done.
The only other thing he remembered was working as a hod-carrier when he was young.
He came out of the dark barn, blinking his eyes at the daylight.
A group of men were standing there on the sidewalk, their worn blue uniforms purplish in the light.
One of them called to him.
"You got it, too, Denton?"
Tom looked at him. He nodded. "Yes."
"We did, too," another said. "They're letting out the senior men because we're getting a higher rate. All the new men are being kept on."
"Have you been to the union yet?" Tom asked.
"We've been there and back.
The hall is closed. The watchman there says come back on Monday."