Flora and Gilbert had both kept copies of their birth certificates with them throughout their lives, as their mother had insisted upon it. She had been certain that having that information would be important and useful to them one day. Gilbert had harbored more anger toward their biological father, but Flora’s anger toward him might have just been dormant. It came exploding to the surface when she heard about Gilbert being shot. The news reaching her over the police radio Bill had rigged up in the attic of the house. J. Ellis Reed deserved to face the consequences and be held accountable, something she was sure he had never before had to do in his long, privileged life.
People in Wooster would gossip that the entire criminal caper had been premeditated. They would concoct wild speculative stories about Flora and Gilbert and J. Ellis Reed. That Flora and Gilbert had been plotting their revenge on their birth father since before they even moved to town. Flora would expect nothing less of the good people of Wooster.
From what her mother had told her, Ellis had promised to marry her, and insisted that race didn’t matter. But then he had gone running back to Wooster “like a yellow-bellied river rat,” when push came to shove. That was also how her mother had described giving birth to twins, “Push coming to shove,” and then she’d laughed, and said, “Flora, you were pushing your brother before you could even breathe for yourself.”
Isabelle Jacobs had too much pride to go chasing after a man who ran from her, and too much sense to love a coward. The attending nurse in the Colored Wing at the hospital offered her counsel when it came time to fill in the details of the twins’ birth certificates. Isabelle had told Nurse Tucker about Ellis.
“Would you like your son to have his name?” Nurse Tucker asked, her stiff blond curls springing wildly from beneath her starched cap. “I’ve seen this a lot in my time here, and women like to make sure the father knows that child belongs to him.”
“No,” Isabelle responded. “That man was a disappointment. A foolish mistake. The boy will be Gilbert, after my brother. And Ogden, for my stepfather.”
“All right, then,” Nurse Tucker said. “Let’s make sure I’m getting the spelling correct.” She held the form out in front of Isabelle.
“That looks good,” Isabelle confirmed, pleased that Nurse Tucker hadn’t assumed she couldn’t read.
“And what about your daughter?”
“I’ve always liked the name Flora,” Isabelle said with a dreamy look in her eyes. “You know, Flora is the Roman goddess of flowers and spring.”
Nurse Tucker’s mouth slowly came out with, “That’s very pretty,” after a prolonged pause, but her face said, Well, look at you!
Isabelle was used to people underestimating her.
“It’s not their fault,” she’d later explain to her children. “They’re just ignorant. They need to learn.”
Flora would have liked to have had a private memorial service for Gilbert and her mother, in the living room of the Toronto bay-and-gable Victorian she, Bill, and Gilbert had called home for a little while, but there wasn’t time. As soon as she and Bill had heard about the shooting, they knew their neighbors would soon, too. They had to get out of there quickly. It took them a half hour to pack up their clothes and Bill threw some books and board games into a box on top of the suitcase that held their money. Flora took special care with the mink Gilbert had given her, holding her handkerchief to her eyes so the tears wouldn’t drop onto the coat.
There was still the odd day in late spring where she’d pull the mink around her as she sat in front of the fire in their new cozy little house, roughly one-third the size of the bay-and-gable Victorian, and the perfect size for the two of them. Flora was helping Bill with his French, because if they wanted to be cast in the local theater productions, they’d need to be able to understand their lines. She was also trying to think of the best time to tell him she wanted to send the rest of the money back to the Wayne Building & Loan. She wanted to be rid of it. Rid of the memories it brought and rid of the way it still tied her to J. Ellis Reed.
Flora was happy where she was now, and when she was ready, she’d tell you the name of the town. For the time being, Flora would just say it was “somewhere small.” Somewhere just like Wooster.
Author’s Note
The recipes and poems in this book are my grandmother’s (typos and all—don’t blame the copyeditors), and the newspaper articles are verbatim from The Daily Record, just with name changes and an extra detail in one (the “youngster”). I’ve exercised some artistic license in other historical details of this book, and wanted to acknowledge them. The story is loosely based on my grandmother, but “loosely” is crucial to keep in mind. The portrayal of Vivian McGinty’s parents is pretty close to the truth; however, the portrayal of her siblings is fictional, and their characters do not resemble my grandmother’s own family (other than the fact that her youngest sister, my Great-Aunt Ginny, really did thwart the armed robbery at the William Annat Company department store). The Myth of Sisyphus was not translated from French into English until 1955, so Charlotte would not have read it in her 1952 English class. Wooster’s A&W was not established until 1957, so Clyde Walsh would have had to take Ginny Frazier somewhere else for their first date. The A&W also, apparently, never served burgers, just hot dogs and chicken sandwiches, in their early years. The Heidelberg Chocolate Factory is not a real place, at least in Wooster. Quinby Elementary School, Forest Chapel Methodist Church, and Wayne Building & Loan were also created for the story. Alphanumeric telephone exchanges were really only used in the larger cities, but I liked the way “MAson-8812” sounded, better than “32” or something similar. Some of the telephone numbers for Wooster in the early 1930s were just two digits. The switchboard operators sat in non-wheeled chairs (based on photographs), which was far more practical, but I wanted the chairs to have wheels. Just because. I tried to keep everything else as authentic as possible but, not having lived during that time, I’m sure there will be discrepancies. My apologies in advance.
Acknowledgments
I have to thank Kate Jackiw and Donna Quathamer for their early reads of this book, when it was in its most infantile, messy manuscript stages, because that is not fun. “Here is a big mess. Please read it.” Kendra Cleveland also did an early read of the first chapter and sent me probably-excellent comments which I never received because they were sent from her not-excellent and not-smart flip phone. The thought counted, though. Ann Schluter Kowaliczco, although too distracted by ankle surgery painkillers and Words With Friends to early-read this, has read so much of the other stuff I’ve written, and offered so much in the way of encouragement and support, and photography. Jim Redmond has also read so much of the other stuff, and has been a staunch bedrock of encouragement, support, unwarranted praise, and invaluable constructive criticism.
My all-the-superlatives, Columbo-esque agent, Susan Ramer (and the always-thoughtful Cara Bellucci), whose notes, suggestions, and tireless attention and efforts made everything so much better. And my astute, thorough editor, Jennifer Brehl, who made me dig deeper into the character motivations (and ultimately made everything so much better). Nate Lanman, who was so wonderful and made sure everything ran smoothly, and the rest of the “behind the scenes” team at William Morrow for all their hard work. Two literary agents, who aren’t mine, Stefanie Lieberman and Janet Reid, who offered excellent advice and encouragement very early on (before this book) that kept me writing and learning along the way. (I still read Janet’s blog daily.) I’ve used the word “encouragement” three times now because it’s pretty important. En-courage-ment. Gives you courage, and whatnot.
Eternal thanks to my high school typing teacher, Mrs. Gentry. “A, a, a, space! A, a, a, space! A, a, a, space! Return!”
Brad Harmon, president of GateHouse Media’s Central U.S. Division, for his lightning-fast response to my request for permission to use the clippings from The Daily Record. Elaine Fletty at the Wayne County Public Library, who had already been so helpful with my
genealogy research, and who dug up some of my grandma’s poetry for this book.
The Firmdale Hotels Instagram page, where I would go for meditative warm-fuzzy moments before, during, and after writing. (Their hotels are mainly in London, and are so incredibly lovely and relaxing and the photos provide a beautiful backdrop.) The Turner Classic Movies channel, which was frequently on the television in the background, putting me in a 1930s, ’40s, or ’50s frame of mind.
Thanks to my family (immediate and extended), in particular my mom and my Aunt Rosemary, who made quirky and funny contributions to the book via their memories, Cousin Sandy for the railroad letters story, and Cousin Leta (who still lives in Wooster) for her ironclad confidence that this would be published. And, finally, thanks to my dad, who ended up being extremely supportive, in spite of himself. He’ll be encouraging once he sees this in print.
About the Author
GRETCHEN BERG was born on the East Coast, raised in the Midwest, and spent a number of years in the Pacific Northwest. She has taught English in South Korea and in northern Iraq and has traveled to all the other continents. A graduate of Iowa State University, she lives in Chicago, Illinois. The Operator is her first novel.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dictionary definitions used throughout the text are from Merriam-Webster.com, 2018 (https://www.merriam-webster.com).
the operator. Copyright © 2020 by Gretchen Berg. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Cover design by Ploy Siripant
Cover photographs © Steve Collender/Shutterstock (black dial with numbers); © Gooddenka/iStock/Getty Images (wallpaper); © DL Pohl/Shutterstock (paper texture middle of dial)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Berg, Gretchen, author.
Title: The operator : a novel / Gretchen Berg.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : William Morrow, [2020]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019014760 | ISBN 9780062917188 (hardcover)
Classification: LCC PS3602.E7524 O64 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019014760
Digital Edition MARCH 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-291720-1
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-291718-8
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