The Larcenist
Susan Knox
Justice is not revenge. It is the only sane alternative to it.
——Rabbi Sacks
I was born in 1923 to Verna Conrad. It was not a planned pregnancy, nor was it a welcome one. Verna didn't even have a name for me. When the midwife realized that Verna didn't care, she gave me my name, Adele.
I never knew my father. Verna refused to talk about him even when I begged for a nugget of information—a name, a photo, an address. I sometimes wondered if I looked like him. Verna was a short stout woman with a sallow complexion and stringy brown hair and brown eyes. I was skinny until puberty when I developed a figure and topped out at 5 feet 7 inches. I have curly auburn hair, a porcelain complexion, and emerald green eyes.
Verna and I lived in a studio apartment on Fifteenth Street in Cincinnati, Ohio. It had a northern exposure, and the interior was dark and gloomy. There was a Murphy bed on the western wall. It was rarely made up or closed during the day. Verna said it was silly to bother since we’d be getting back into bed in a few hours. The floor was covered in worn linoleum patterned in burnt orange squares with a beige background, and little triangles in dark brown sprinkled randomly throughout. There was a kitchen sink, white porcelain with rust spots, and an iron faucet that dripped. On the counter was a Graniteware hot plate, an aluminum saucepan, a cast iron skillet, a toaster rescued from a curbside that toasted bread one side at a time, an icebox with no ice, a bread safe, jars of Skippy Peanut Butter, cans of Campbell condensed tomato soup, Eagle Brand condensed milk and Sanka instant coffee. We ate at a rickety card table with two folding chairs. The lighting was two 120-watt light bulbs in the ceiling, their glass shades long gone. There was enough room for a scratchy dark green davenport that seated two and an oak rocking chair that had been plucked from the sidewalk. The bathroom was in the hall—a toilet, sink, and tub—shared with two other tenants on our third floor. The air was still and stale. There were two sash windows to the north that led to the fire escape stairs and a small crank-out window to the east, above the kitchen area. The windows were covered with a blue and white-patterned muslin that was faded and dusty. The walls, painted years ago, were pale yellow and appeared mottled with smudgy brown spots maybe from cigarette smoke or burning food. A Philco Blub radio meant to rest on a table was on the floor in the corner plugged into an electric outlet. There was no telephone, but residents could use a pay phone on the first-floor entryway to the building.
All through my childhood, Verna repeated a warning. “I'll take care of you until you're sixteen, then you're on your own.” I was pretty much on my own, even as a child.
Verna worked in a laundry six days a week and left the apartment around seven in the morning. She said she took me to the laundry with her until I was two and potty trained. Then she left me alone in the apartment tying my ankle to the Murphy bed leg with a long rope. “Don’t make noise, don’t stomp your feet,” she said, “or sing or turn up the radio. Here’s a pot to pee in but try to hold it. Just be quiet and I’ll be home at 5:00 and fix a meal.” I understood and I obeyed but it was so boring with nothing to do all day. I had a rubber ball, and I pretended I was juggling three balls at a time. I wanted to bounce the ball on the floor, but I was afraid it would be too noisy. I wanted to climb out on the fire escape to watch people walk by, but I couldn’t get the windows open.
When I was five, Verna dispensed with the rope. I don’t know why, maybe she thought I’d figure out how to untie it. The first thing I did was drag a chair over to the door, climb up and try to turn the doorknob, but the door wouldn’t open. I figured out pretty quickly how to unlock it by jiggling the door until it finally opened. I was free to explore.
I tiptoed into the hallway. All was quiet. I peeked over the banister to see if anyone was out on the second floor. No activity there. I decided to creep down the stairs holding tight to the banister with my right hand and my rubber ball in my left. I reached the landing and walked down the second-floor hallway, listening. I stopped at each door and pressed my ear against the wood. I heard nothing so I turned around at the end of the hall and started back, listening at the doors on the other side. I started to think I was all alone. Then, at the next to last door, I heard music and someone humming. It scared me so I decided to run back upstairs, but when I got to the stairs, I went down instead of up. There were only two doors on the first floor. The first door was quiet but as I turned to press my ear against the other, the building’s front door opened, and I froze. A woman with a grocery bag walked in looking at her key ring for her apartment key. I stayed very still. Maybe she wouldn’t notice a little girl in the hallway.
My heart thudded as the woman slowly turned her head toward me. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “I haven’t seen you before. Do you live here?” I nodded my head yes and pointed up the stairs. “Well, I was just going in to put away these groceries and then make a cup of hot cocoa and have a sugar cookie. Would you like to have one too?” I was hungry and even though I didn’t know what hot cocoa was, I nodded my head again and followed the woman into her apartment.
No one had ever told me not to talk to strangers, and I wasn’t scared at all. I’d never seen a kitchen like this before. It was clean and white and sparkling. There were clear windows that looked out on a back yard with blooming flowers and green grass. There was a nice smell in the room that I later learned was cinnamon. There was a round table with a yellow and white checked cloth on the table, and four wooden chairs painted blue were pushed up to the table. “My name is Miss Wilcox. What’s your name?” “Adele,” I said. “What a beautiful name, Adele,” she said as she bustled around the kitchen. She twisted the cap off a bottle of milk, poured it into a pan and lit the gas stove with a match. She stirred some brown powder into the milk and after a few minutes, poured the mixture into two cups and brought them to the table along with a plate of cookies.
As I sipped the last drop in my cup, I looked up at Miss Wilcox. “That was good.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said. She was holding something in her hand that looked like a box.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She looked surprised and said, “Why this is a book. Have you never seen a book before?” I shook my head no and she said, “Come with me,” and held out her hand. I slipped my hand into hers and we walked to another sunny room. “I used to be the school librarian at the Irene Day Elementary School. I imagine that’s where you’ll be going when you’re just a bit older.” I must have looked puzzled, because she said, “Do you know about going to school?” I shook my head no. “Well, I’ll tell you more about that another time. Let’s find a book for you to look at.”
The room she took me to was lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling, and they were full of books. She led me over to a place by the window, pulled up a small stool for her to sit on and told me to sit on a round multi-colored braided rug. She leaned down and pulled a bright orange book with black lines and a funny-looking girl and said, “This book is called Raggedy Ann’s Alphabet Book.”
It was full of brightly colored pictures, and Miss Wilcox allowed me to turn the pages by myself. When I was through looking, I pointed to some black markings on the page and asked her about them. “Those are letters that make words. When you go to school, you’ll learn how to read books. For now, I’ll read them to you, if you like.” I nodded my head yes. She turned back to a page with pretty pictures that I particularly liked.
“This says C is for Cricket—the cute little mite deep down in the grass plays his fiddle at night. The one below it is, D is for Dwarfs, they live in the wood. Dwarfs are helpful and kindly and good.” I was thrilled with the book and Miss Wilcox said, “Would you like to take this home with you?”
“Oh, yes. I’d like that,” I replied.
“Why don’t we go there now? When does your mother get home?”
“When the sun goes behind the building across the street.”
“That will be soon. Are you hungry?”
“A little. I have to wait until Verna comes home.”
“I’ll make you a cheese sandwich to take home. I’d like to meet your mother. Is it okay with you if I come up tonight and introduce myself?”
“I guess so.”
Miss Wilcox knocked on the door later that evening. Verna had a surprised look on her face as she answered the door.
“Hello. I’m Virginia Wilcox. I live on the first floor. I’d like to talk with you. May I come in?”
Verna looked like she was going to say no but she opened the door wider and motioned her to come in.
“What do you want?”
“I had the pleasure of meeting Adele today and I wanted to talk with you about her.”
Verna gave me a steely look, then turned to look at Miss Wilcox. “What about her?”
“I’m a retired school librarian. Adele is a bright child, and I’d like to spend some time with her. As you might imagine, I have a lot of children’s books, and she seems to be fascinated with them.”
“I don’t know about that. What did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking that you could drop her off at my apartment when you leave in the morning. We’d spend the morning together and then, if you agree to give me a key, I’ll bring her up after lunch. We could try it for a week or two and then decide if we want to continue. What do you think?”
“I won’t give you a key but if you want to keep her all day, I’ll stop by and pick her up when I get home from work,” Verna said.
“Fine. Let’s give it a try. Shall we start tomorrow?”
Verna nodded her head in agreement and showed Miss Wilcox to the door.
As a result, Verna turned over the raising of me to Miss Wilcox. I still slept and ate supper with Verna, but Miss Wilcox spent a lot of time with me. I can’t imagine what kind of life I’d have had if she hadn’t taken an interest in me.
Miss Wilcox recognized my quick mind, taught me to read and advised me on all manner of life skills: how to behave in school and public places, how to eat properly, when to say please and thank you, how to talk with others. She gave me love with hugs and kisses, kind comments and a firm hand. She understood that I would be on my own at sixteen and advised me to get my high school diploma by doubling up on class credits. She talked to my high school counselor to enlist her help. I was a good student and entered the job market in June 1939 with a diploma and all that the school’s business curriculum could provide bookkeeping, business phone etiquette, shorthand, typing, proper formation of business letters, deportment on the job, filing techniques.
When Verna turned me out at sixteen, she told me she never wanted to see me again and I’d better not stay with Miss Wilcox. I moved to a rooming house. Miss Wilcox gave me enough money to live on for a few months. I’d been scanning the want ads for weeks but now it was time for action. I answered an ad for a Girl Friday at the Cincinnati Machine Company. A big name for a small two-man business. Chuck Simpson, one of the owners, interviewed me.
Chuck, a short muscular man dressed in dark green work pants and shirt, was a man of few words, and I found myself carrying the interview.
“I graduated top of my class in all the business courses,” I told him. “I know bookkeeping. I'm an excellent typist. I know the proper etiquette for answering the phone, greeting visitors, keeping a calendar. I'd like to show you what I can do to help your business. Can you tell me about your company?”
“First of all,” Chuck said “I need some personal information. “What's your address and phone number?”
“1540 Grandview Avenue #5. My phone is 2425.”
“Do you live at home?”
“No.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
Chuck’s head jerked up. “A pretty girl like you? How old are you?”
“I’m eighteen,” I lied.
“Okey Dokey. You asked about the business. We machine metal parts for refrigeration units. It's just Tom Fredericks and me right now. But if we end up in the war, we'll convert to whatever the government needs us to make. After the depression, it will be a relief to have more work, and I think my business will boom. I'll pay you $0.50 an hour for a 40-hour week. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You can start tomorrow.”
I worked in the front office. The whole place smelled of metal filings and machine oil. I didn't mind though. I took charge of my work, and I did a good job, an exemplary job, even though Chuck never said a word about the results. I made improvements when I saw the need. The invoices went out promptly, and I was on the phone if a customer was late paying. I made bank deposits when the checks arrived in the mail. When I started the job, I was appalled to find a stack of uncashed checks on my desk. What could Chuck be thinking holding money like that? I found that I was a natural at business, and I continued to find ways to improve my operation. I even had some ideas for improvements in the machine shop, but I decided to wait for the right opportunity to introduce them.
Chuck was right about World War II. By the middle of 1942, they’d hired twenty machinists and moved to a larger building. The money rolled in. Chuck and Tom were ecstatic with their success. They joined Brookside Country Club, bought shiny black Lincoln cars, and built fine homes for their growing families. I watched and I enjoyed seeing the business grow and profits mount up. I was busier than ever, but I relished the challenge. More people were hired. A draftsman, a personnel man, an engineer. I was still the only female in the organization, and I was the only one who wasn't receiving regular wage increases. I’d always believed if I worked hard and did my job, I would be recognized and rewarded. Surely they knew how much I was doing for the company. I'd handled the increased workload. Not everyone could have done that, but I loved the work, especially since I was pretty much my own boss.
There was another problem. I guess you could say that I was amply endowed. I'd gotten used to men who walked into the office, greeted me, then dropped their eyes to my breasts. I could hear their comments about me as they walked into other offices; even Chuck talked about my figure. I pretended not to notice. I was seething underneath.
One day in December,1943, Chuck dropped off a list of names and dollar amounts on my desk. “I want to give the boys a bonus this year. Type up these checks. Okey Dokey?” I picked up the paper. My name wasn’t on the list. My jaw clenched. I felt my face getting red. Chuck walked on. I regularly checked the Want Ads, not that I wanted another job, but to monitor comparable wages. I knew I was underpaid and now it was almost Christmas, the company was profitable, and all the men were getting an extra check. That’s when I decided to take the situation into my own hands and give myself a raise.
I ordered blank invoices for four different nonexistent companies from a printing company. I was careful. I typed up fake invoices for no more than $50 each and I only prepared two or three each month. I wrote checks, attached the invoice and Chuck, who never bothered to look at invoices, routinely signed the checks as I knew he would. I had rubber stamps created with each company's name to endorse the check. I deposited the checks by mail into four different bank accounts under the fake companies’ names. This went on for the next twenty-two years.
In 1961, Chuck and Tom got an offer to buy the company from a Manhattan investor. They accepted the offer, and the potential buyer required an audit by a CPA firm to confirm the true value of the company. I had no experience with auditors, and I worried they would discover my larceny. David Clark showed up one morning and introduced himself as the managing partner of the local Price Waterhouse office. He spent some time with me explaining how they would go about the audit and then went on to a meeting with Chuck. I felt reassured now that I knew how they would operate. I was confident I’d concealed my perfidy.
What I didn't count on was David Clark's interest in the audit. I thought a managing partner would assign one or two accountants to the job. We were a successful company, but not that large as far as Price Waterhouse was concerned. PW had been hired by the potential buyer in New York who used them for audits of their extensive holdings. I thought this might be the reason David was so involved. He wanted to ensure the client was well-served.
Four weeks later, the audit was done, and David scheduled a meeting with Chuck to review the findings. It was held in Chuck's fancy office, furnished with a tan leather sofa, Tiffany lamps, navy silk drapes and a heavy walnut desk. This is where Chuck received visitors. His working office had a beat-up gray metal desk facing a large plate glass window that looked out to the machine shop.
Outside his fancy office was a short hallway where we kept a large black Mosler safe. I planned to busy myself at the safe so I could listen to the conversation. That was working well until my name came up. David said, “The audit is completed, everything checks out, the inventory count is correct, the equipment records are accurate, your customers seem prosperous and pay on time, you’re profitable. There's just one thing we need to discuss.”
Chuck interrupted. “It's Adele, right?”
“Well, you don't pay her very much.”
“It's not a good idea to pay gals too much. They don't need as much money as men.”
The door closed. I wondered if David closed it. I couldn’t hear the conversation. I walked back to my desk. My legs felt weak and when I sat down and picked up a pen, I saw my hands were shaking. I thought about what I’d heard. David had been defending me—you don’t pay her very much. Maybe I wasn’t in trouble, maybe he was going to advocate a merit raise for me. I relaxed and got to work.
Fifteen minutes later, David strolled out, tipped his hat to me. “You're a good man, David Clark,” I said. He looked surprised and walked out the door. I watched him get into his Cadillac, but he didn’t leave. He sat there staring straight ahead.
About fifteen minutes went by. The door opened and in walked David. He stopped in front of my desk, and said, “Here’s the deal, Adele. I need an office manager, someone with your smarts, someone who can track personnel and paperwork, someone who can tell me who is forging positive connections and who’s alienating clients, someone who looks for improvements and possibilities in the practice. You wouldn’t be responsible for billings, collections, or deposits. No money handling.”
“Wow,” I said softly, looking down at my desk.
“You’d be paid what you’re worth. About five times what you officially make here.”
He knew.
My heart skipped a couple of beats. I took a deep breath and looked up at him, “I understand David. I’d like the job, but I hate to leave Chuck in the lurch.”
“Chuck will be fine. Jackson wants to move fast, bring in his New York staff to create systems the way he likes them. You’ll be out in weeks, and Chuck will be out in less than a year.”
I stood up and held out my hand. David shook it, I thanked him and started at Price Waterhouse ten days later. Somehow, I knew this would work out for me, that I’d be safe with David. And I was right.
David and I had a good professional relationship. He never mentioned the larceny, and I never asked how he discovered it. We didn’t socialize outside the office. Our association was all business, David and I were a first-rate team, and I knew I was appreciated and valued at Price Waterhouse. I loved the work, the staff, the respect I got and the hearings for my ideas. And I was well paid with annual bonuses.
After hours, I’m happiest when I’m alone, content with my books and a radio. My social life consists of chatting with the staff at my local library and ballroom dancing. When an Arthur Murray Dance Studio opened in Cincinnati, I decided to check it out. I’d always enjoyed popular music on the radio—I could feel my body swaying in time with the beat. I loved ballroom dancing. The Waltz, Foxtrot, Swing, Quick Step, Lindy Hop, but I especially enjoyed Latin music—Xavier Cugat’s band playing “Begin the Beguine,” “Tico Tico,” or “Peanut Vendor” and dancing a Rumba or a Cha Cha. The instructors told me I was good enough to enter competitions, but I wasn’t interested. I just wanted to move to music, and a weekly dance satisfied that need.
Verna died in 1940. I happened to see her obituary in the local paper. When Miss Wilcox died in 1949, I was surprised to learn she’d left everything to me—her savings, her furniture and all the contents of her home including her library. I moved into her apartment where I’d spent much of my childhood. She didn’t leave a lot of money, but it was a cushion for my frugal way of life and made me feel more secure. In 1993, David retired, and I decided to follow him. I was seventy. It was time.
I have a big decision to make before I die. All that money I embezzled from Cincinnati Machine is sitting in the bank. I never spent a cent. The money satisfied my anger over the way I was undervalued and insulted. It was my justice. Now I want to do something useful with it before I die. I’ve decided to donate all the money to the Cincinnati Public Library System, anonymously, with the request that it be used for children’s book acquisitions. It will be my homage to Miss Wilcox. I believe she’d understand and applaud my decision.
~ ~ ~
July 2026
Susan Knox
Justice is not revenge. It is the only sane alternative to it.
——Rabbi Sacks
I was born in 1923 to Verna Conrad. It was not a planned pregnancy, nor was it a welcome one. Verna didn't even have a name for me. When the midwife realized that Verna didn't care, she gave me my name, Adele.
I never knew my father. Verna refused to talk about him even when I begged for a nugget of information—a name, a photo, an address. I sometimes wondered if I looked like him. Verna was a short stout woman with a sallow complexion and stringy brown hair and brown eyes. I was skinny until puberty when I developed a figure and topped out at 5 feet 7 inches. I have curly auburn hair, a porcelain complexion, and emerald green eyes.
Verna and I lived in a studio apartment on Fifteenth Street in Cincinnati, Ohio. It had a northern exposure, and the interior was dark and gloomy. There was a Murphy bed on the western wall. It was rarely made up or closed during the day. Verna said it was silly to bother since we’d be getting back into bed in a few hours. The floor was covered in worn linoleum patterned in burnt orange squares with a beige background, and little triangles in dark brown sprinkled randomly throughout. There was a kitchen sink, white porcelain with rust spots, and an iron faucet that dripped. On the counter was a Graniteware hot plate, an aluminum saucepan, a cast iron skillet, a toaster rescued from a curbside that toasted bread one side at a time, an icebox with no ice, a bread safe, jars of Skippy Peanut Butter, cans of Campbell condensed tomato soup, Eagle Brand condensed milk and Sanka instant coffee. We ate at a rickety card table with two folding chairs. The lighting was two 120-watt light bulbs in the ceiling, their glass shades long gone. There was enough room for a scratchy dark green davenport that seated two and an oak rocking chair that had been plucked from the sidewalk. The bathroom was in the hall—a toilet, sink, and tub—shared with two other tenants on our third floor. The air was still and stale. There were two sash windows to the north that led to the fire escape stairs and a small crank-out window to the east, above the kitchen area. The windows were covered with a blue and white-patterned muslin that was faded and dusty. The walls, painted years ago, were pale yellow and appeared mottled with smudgy brown spots maybe from cigarette smoke or burning food. A Philco Blub radio meant to rest on a table was on the floor in the corner plugged into an electric outlet. There was no telephone, but residents could use a pay phone on the first-floor entryway to the building.
All through my childhood, Verna repeated a warning. “I'll take care of you until you're sixteen, then you're on your own.” I was pretty much on my own, even as a child.
Verna worked in a laundry six days a week and left the apartment around seven in the morning. She said she took me to the laundry with her until I was two and potty trained. Then she left me alone in the apartment tying my ankle to the Murphy bed leg with a long rope. “Don’t make noise, don’t stomp your feet,” she said, “or sing or turn up the radio. Here’s a pot to pee in but try to hold it. Just be quiet and I’ll be home at 5:00 and fix a meal.” I understood and I obeyed but it was so boring with nothing to do all day. I had a rubber ball, and I pretended I was juggling three balls at a time. I wanted to bounce the ball on the floor, but I was afraid it would be too noisy. I wanted to climb out on the fire escape to watch people walk by, but I couldn’t get the windows open.
When I was five, Verna dispensed with the rope. I don’t know why, maybe she thought I’d figure out how to untie it. The first thing I did was drag a chair over to the door, climb up and try to turn the doorknob, but the door wouldn’t open. I figured out pretty quickly how to unlock it by jiggling the door until it finally opened. I was free to explore.
I tiptoed into the hallway. All was quiet. I peeked over the banister to see if anyone was out on the second floor. No activity there. I decided to creep down the stairs holding tight to the banister with my right hand and my rubber ball in my left. I reached the landing and walked down the second-floor hallway, listening. I stopped at each door and pressed my ear against the wood. I heard nothing so I turned around at the end of the hall and started back, listening at the doors on the other side. I started to think I was all alone. Then, at the next to last door, I heard music and someone humming. It scared me so I decided to run back upstairs, but when I got to the stairs, I went down instead of up. There were only two doors on the first floor. The first door was quiet but as I turned to press my ear against the other, the building’s front door opened, and I froze. A woman with a grocery bag walked in looking at her key ring for her apartment key. I stayed very still. Maybe she wouldn’t notice a little girl in the hallway.
My heart thudded as the woman slowly turned her head toward me. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “I haven’t seen you before. Do you live here?” I nodded my head yes and pointed up the stairs. “Well, I was just going in to put away these groceries and then make a cup of hot cocoa and have a sugar cookie. Would you like to have one too?” I was hungry and even though I didn’t know what hot cocoa was, I nodded my head again and followed the woman into her apartment.
No one had ever told me not to talk to strangers, and I wasn’t scared at all. I’d never seen a kitchen like this before. It was clean and white and sparkling. There were clear windows that looked out on a back yard with blooming flowers and green grass. There was a nice smell in the room that I later learned was cinnamon. There was a round table with a yellow and white checked cloth on the table, and four wooden chairs painted blue were pushed up to the table. “My name is Miss Wilcox. What’s your name?” “Adele,” I said. “What a beautiful name, Adele,” she said as she bustled around the kitchen. She twisted the cap off a bottle of milk, poured it into a pan and lit the gas stove with a match. She stirred some brown powder into the milk and after a few minutes, poured the mixture into two cups and brought them to the table along with a plate of cookies.
As I sipped the last drop in my cup, I looked up at Miss Wilcox. “That was good.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said. She was holding something in her hand that looked like a box.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She looked surprised and said, “Why this is a book. Have you never seen a book before?” I shook my head no and she said, “Come with me,” and held out her hand. I slipped my hand into hers and we walked to another sunny room. “I used to be the school librarian at the Irene Day Elementary School. I imagine that’s where you’ll be going when you’re just a bit older.” I must have looked puzzled, because she said, “Do you know about going to school?” I shook my head no. “Well, I’ll tell you more about that another time. Let’s find a book for you to look at.”
The room she took me to was lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling, and they were full of books. She led me over to a place by the window, pulled up a small stool for her to sit on and told me to sit on a round multi-colored braided rug. She leaned down and pulled a bright orange book with black lines and a funny-looking girl and said, “This book is called Raggedy Ann’s Alphabet Book.”
It was full of brightly colored pictures, and Miss Wilcox allowed me to turn the pages by myself. When I was through looking, I pointed to some black markings on the page and asked her about them. “Those are letters that make words. When you go to school, you’ll learn how to read books. For now, I’ll read them to you, if you like.” I nodded my head yes. She turned back to a page with pretty pictures that I particularly liked.
“This says C is for Cricket—the cute little mite deep down in the grass plays his fiddle at night. The one below it is, D is for Dwarfs, they live in the wood. Dwarfs are helpful and kindly and good.” I was thrilled with the book and Miss Wilcox said, “Would you like to take this home with you?”
“Oh, yes. I’d like that,” I replied.
“Why don’t we go there now? When does your mother get home?”
“When the sun goes behind the building across the street.”
“That will be soon. Are you hungry?”
“A little. I have to wait until Verna comes home.”
“I’ll make you a cheese sandwich to take home. I’d like to meet your mother. Is it okay with you if I come up tonight and introduce myself?”
“I guess so.”
Miss Wilcox knocked on the door later that evening. Verna had a surprised look on her face as she answered the door.
“Hello. I’m Virginia Wilcox. I live on the first floor. I’d like to talk with you. May I come in?”
Verna looked like she was going to say no but she opened the door wider and motioned her to come in.
“What do you want?”
“I had the pleasure of meeting Adele today and I wanted to talk with you about her.”
Verna gave me a steely look, then turned to look at Miss Wilcox. “What about her?”
“I’m a retired school librarian. Adele is a bright child, and I’d like to spend some time with her. As you might imagine, I have a lot of children’s books, and she seems to be fascinated with them.”
“I don’t know about that. What did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking that you could drop her off at my apartment when you leave in the morning. We’d spend the morning together and then, if you agree to give me a key, I’ll bring her up after lunch. We could try it for a week or two and then decide if we want to continue. What do you think?”
“I won’t give you a key but if you want to keep her all day, I’ll stop by and pick her up when I get home from work,” Verna said.
“Fine. Let’s give it a try. Shall we start tomorrow?”
Verna nodded her head in agreement and showed Miss Wilcox to the door.
As a result, Verna turned over the raising of me to Miss Wilcox. I still slept and ate supper with Verna, but Miss Wilcox spent a lot of time with me. I can’t imagine what kind of life I’d have had if she hadn’t taken an interest in me.
Miss Wilcox recognized my quick mind, taught me to read and advised me on all manner of life skills: how to behave in school and public places, how to eat properly, when to say please and thank you, how to talk with others. She gave me love with hugs and kisses, kind comments and a firm hand. She understood that I would be on my own at sixteen and advised me to get my high school diploma by doubling up on class credits. She talked to my high school counselor to enlist her help. I was a good student and entered the job market in June 1939 with a diploma and all that the school’s business curriculum could provide bookkeeping, business phone etiquette, shorthand, typing, proper formation of business letters, deportment on the job, filing techniques.
When Verna turned me out at sixteen, she told me she never wanted to see me again and I’d better not stay with Miss Wilcox. I moved to a rooming house. Miss Wilcox gave me enough money to live on for a few months. I’d been scanning the want ads for weeks but now it was time for action. I answered an ad for a Girl Friday at the Cincinnati Machine Company. A big name for a small two-man business. Chuck Simpson, one of the owners, interviewed me.
Chuck, a short muscular man dressed in dark green work pants and shirt, was a man of few words, and I found myself carrying the interview.
“I graduated top of my class in all the business courses,” I told him. “I know bookkeeping. I'm an excellent typist. I know the proper etiquette for answering the phone, greeting visitors, keeping a calendar. I'd like to show you what I can do to help your business. Can you tell me about your company?”
“First of all,” Chuck said “I need some personal information. “What's your address and phone number?”
“1540 Grandview Avenue #5. My phone is 2425.”
“Do you live at home?”
“No.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
Chuck’s head jerked up. “A pretty girl like you? How old are you?”
“I’m eighteen,” I lied.
“Okey Dokey. You asked about the business. We machine metal parts for refrigeration units. It's just Tom Fredericks and me right now. But if we end up in the war, we'll convert to whatever the government needs us to make. After the depression, it will be a relief to have more work, and I think my business will boom. I'll pay you $0.50 an hour for a 40-hour week. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You can start tomorrow.”
I worked in the front office. The whole place smelled of metal filings and machine oil. I didn't mind though. I took charge of my work, and I did a good job, an exemplary job, even though Chuck never said a word about the results. I made improvements when I saw the need. The invoices went out promptly, and I was on the phone if a customer was late paying. I made bank deposits when the checks arrived in the mail. When I started the job, I was appalled to find a stack of uncashed checks on my desk. What could Chuck be thinking holding money like that? I found that I was a natural at business, and I continued to find ways to improve my operation. I even had some ideas for improvements in the machine shop, but I decided to wait for the right opportunity to introduce them.
Chuck was right about World War II. By the middle of 1942, they’d hired twenty machinists and moved to a larger building. The money rolled in. Chuck and Tom were ecstatic with their success. They joined Brookside Country Club, bought shiny black Lincoln cars, and built fine homes for their growing families. I watched and I enjoyed seeing the business grow and profits mount up. I was busier than ever, but I relished the challenge. More people were hired. A draftsman, a personnel man, an engineer. I was still the only female in the organization, and I was the only one who wasn't receiving regular wage increases. I’d always believed if I worked hard and did my job, I would be recognized and rewarded. Surely they knew how much I was doing for the company. I'd handled the increased workload. Not everyone could have done that, but I loved the work, especially since I was pretty much my own boss.
There was another problem. I guess you could say that I was amply endowed. I'd gotten used to men who walked into the office, greeted me, then dropped their eyes to my breasts. I could hear their comments about me as they walked into other offices; even Chuck talked about my figure. I pretended not to notice. I was seething underneath.
One day in December,1943, Chuck dropped off a list of names and dollar amounts on my desk. “I want to give the boys a bonus this year. Type up these checks. Okey Dokey?” I picked up the paper. My name wasn’t on the list. My jaw clenched. I felt my face getting red. Chuck walked on. I regularly checked the Want Ads, not that I wanted another job, but to monitor comparable wages. I knew I was underpaid and now it was almost Christmas, the company was profitable, and all the men were getting an extra check. That’s when I decided to take the situation into my own hands and give myself a raise.
I ordered blank invoices for four different nonexistent companies from a printing company. I was careful. I typed up fake invoices for no more than $50 each and I only prepared two or three each month. I wrote checks, attached the invoice and Chuck, who never bothered to look at invoices, routinely signed the checks as I knew he would. I had rubber stamps created with each company's name to endorse the check. I deposited the checks by mail into four different bank accounts under the fake companies’ names. This went on for the next twenty-two years.
In 1961, Chuck and Tom got an offer to buy the company from a Manhattan investor. They accepted the offer, and the potential buyer required an audit by a CPA firm to confirm the true value of the company. I had no experience with auditors, and I worried they would discover my larceny. David Clark showed up one morning and introduced himself as the managing partner of the local Price Waterhouse office. He spent some time with me explaining how they would go about the audit and then went on to a meeting with Chuck. I felt reassured now that I knew how they would operate. I was confident I’d concealed my perfidy.
What I didn't count on was David Clark's interest in the audit. I thought a managing partner would assign one or two accountants to the job. We were a successful company, but not that large as far as Price Waterhouse was concerned. PW had been hired by the potential buyer in New York who used them for audits of their extensive holdings. I thought this might be the reason David was so involved. He wanted to ensure the client was well-served.
Four weeks later, the audit was done, and David scheduled a meeting with Chuck to review the findings. It was held in Chuck's fancy office, furnished with a tan leather sofa, Tiffany lamps, navy silk drapes and a heavy walnut desk. This is where Chuck received visitors. His working office had a beat-up gray metal desk facing a large plate glass window that looked out to the machine shop.
Outside his fancy office was a short hallway where we kept a large black Mosler safe. I planned to busy myself at the safe so I could listen to the conversation. That was working well until my name came up. David said, “The audit is completed, everything checks out, the inventory count is correct, the equipment records are accurate, your customers seem prosperous and pay on time, you’re profitable. There's just one thing we need to discuss.”
Chuck interrupted. “It's Adele, right?”
“Well, you don't pay her very much.”
“It's not a good idea to pay gals too much. They don't need as much money as men.”
The door closed. I wondered if David closed it. I couldn’t hear the conversation. I walked back to my desk. My legs felt weak and when I sat down and picked up a pen, I saw my hands were shaking. I thought about what I’d heard. David had been defending me—you don’t pay her very much. Maybe I wasn’t in trouble, maybe he was going to advocate a merit raise for me. I relaxed and got to work.
Fifteen minutes later, David strolled out, tipped his hat to me. “You're a good man, David Clark,” I said. He looked surprised and walked out the door. I watched him get into his Cadillac, but he didn’t leave. He sat there staring straight ahead.
About fifteen minutes went by. The door opened and in walked David. He stopped in front of my desk, and said, “Here’s the deal, Adele. I need an office manager, someone with your smarts, someone who can track personnel and paperwork, someone who can tell me who is forging positive connections and who’s alienating clients, someone who looks for improvements and possibilities in the practice. You wouldn’t be responsible for billings, collections, or deposits. No money handling.”
“Wow,” I said softly, looking down at my desk.
“You’d be paid what you’re worth. About five times what you officially make here.”
He knew.
My heart skipped a couple of beats. I took a deep breath and looked up at him, “I understand David. I’d like the job, but I hate to leave Chuck in the lurch.”
“Chuck will be fine. Jackson wants to move fast, bring in his New York staff to create systems the way he likes them. You’ll be out in weeks, and Chuck will be out in less than a year.”
I stood up and held out my hand. David shook it, I thanked him and started at Price Waterhouse ten days later. Somehow, I knew this would work out for me, that I’d be safe with David. And I was right.
David and I had a good professional relationship. He never mentioned the larceny, and I never asked how he discovered it. We didn’t socialize outside the office. Our association was all business, David and I were a first-rate team, and I knew I was appreciated and valued at Price Waterhouse. I loved the work, the staff, the respect I got and the hearings for my ideas. And I was well paid with annual bonuses.
After hours, I’m happiest when I’m alone, content with my books and a radio. My social life consists of chatting with the staff at my local library and ballroom dancing. When an Arthur Murray Dance Studio opened in Cincinnati, I decided to check it out. I’d always enjoyed popular music on the radio—I could feel my body swaying in time with the beat. I loved ballroom dancing. The Waltz, Foxtrot, Swing, Quick Step, Lindy Hop, but I especially enjoyed Latin music—Xavier Cugat’s band playing “Begin the Beguine,” “Tico Tico,” or “Peanut Vendor” and dancing a Rumba or a Cha Cha. The instructors told me I was good enough to enter competitions, but I wasn’t interested. I just wanted to move to music, and a weekly dance satisfied that need.
Verna died in 1940. I happened to see her obituary in the local paper. When Miss Wilcox died in 1949, I was surprised to learn she’d left everything to me—her savings, her furniture and all the contents of her home including her library. I moved into her apartment where I’d spent much of my childhood. She didn’t leave a lot of money, but it was a cushion for my frugal way of life and made me feel more secure. In 1993, David retired, and I decided to follow him. I was seventy. It was time.
I have a big decision to make before I die. All that money I embezzled from Cincinnati Machine is sitting in the bank. I never spent a cent. The money satisfied my anger over the way I was undervalued and insulted. It was my justice. Now I want to do something useful with it before I die. I’ve decided to donate all the money to the Cincinnati Public Library System, anonymously, with the request that it be used for children’s book acquisitions. It will be my homage to Miss Wilcox. I believe she’d understand and applaud my decision.
~ ~ ~
July 2026
