“Manhole!”
“The kids do. School kids. There are ladders. That’s what they said in the fruit store.
Young hellion! You can go blocks underground in the new sewer. Down to the cemetery—and beyond. If you’re that much of a fool. Me, I wouldn’t walk in one for a fortune. Where’s your new dress?”
Lenore decided not to tell her mother anything about her major decision. There wasn’t time. And it no longer mattered to Lenore what her mother thought. She knew what her mother would say and try to do. That didn’t matter either. She answered, “Mother, I got yanked away from Aubrey’s by Civil Defense.”
“What?” Mrs. Bailey didn’t understand; she was so completely baffled she could not even react.
“Now, Mother, take this calmly. I got an alert. It means nothing probably. Perhaps just a special drill—to see how we respond when we don’t in the least expect it. But it meant going through the routine. Coming home. Getting into my clothes. Going over to the school—all such. I’m in a hurry.”
By then, Netta understood. She understood and was calm. “You simply haven’t time for it,” she said. “I didn’t think you could be so flighty! If your new frock wasn’t ready, you’ll have to wear your indigo. It looks well on you. Your hair needs more fixing. You’ll have plenty of time to get to the Ritz-Hadley— plenty! You can even lie down for an hour, if you’re tired. You look a bit fagged!”
“Mother. I’m going to the school!”
“My dear, Kit would be furious.”
“Call a cab for me,” Lenore said. “If you can’t get one here in twenty minutes, see if a neighbor would drive me over. Anybody.”