by Kirby Larson
Flipping through old newsprint was a bit like attending church services. Aunt Ivy would be horrified if she ever heard me compare the two—one focused on man and one on God—but I had come to believe that there was something sacred in telling stories and telling them true. I smoothed the page on the table in front of me. One day, I would create stories like those printed here. I knew it.
But when I looked at the many volumes yet on the shelves, my task seemed akin to finding a needle in a stack of hay. All those pages! It was deflating to consider perusing each sheet of each issue from 1915 on, in order to find one tiny key, however rusty, to my uncle’s past. If I had been back in Arlington, it would have been a snap. In a small town, everyone ends up in the paper at some time or another, and not just in the birth announcements or obituaries. A ladies’ luncheon would earn many column inches. New hymnals at the Baptist church would rate a headline in bold. And a farmer’s just-delivered tractor would make front-page news.
In a city as big as San Francisco, a person could evidently drift through, silent and stealthy, and evaporate without a trace, like the familiar fog under the strength of the sun.
With a sigh, I flopped open the volume for 1915 to July 1, to pick up where I’d left off. I read through my lunch hour, barely scratching the surface, then pushed back in my chair, rubbing my eyes from the strain. It was no use! I’d never find anything. Never come up with that story that would truly hook Mr. Monson’s attention and hook me a newspaper job. I was about to turn the page when something jumped out at me. Under an article about a woman who’d been passing counterfeit traveler’s checks was a column titled “In the Hotels.” I’d noticed this particular column before. But here was a name I recognized: Chester Hubert Wright.
A thrill zinged through me as I scanned the line. Uncle Chester! Registered at the Hotel Sutter. Did this notice mean he’d recently arrived? Or had he been in town awhile? I began flipping backward through earlier issues. His name had appeared the week before. And the week before that. I kept flipping. The earliest date he was listed was Wednesday, May 12. That fit with Ruby’s memory that they’d met in the spring. I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the hotel’s name, making a mental note to look up the address later. I closed the big book, giving the front cover a pat. Well-begun was half done!
The nights at work soon fell into a similar routine—I’d start in the newsroom and migrate to the morgue, trying to peel my uncle’s story from those yellowed pages. Aside from learning that he’d roomed at the Sutter, I hadn’t made much progress. But I was getting quite the education about this town around the time of the Panama Pacific International Exposition. San Francisco had been determined to show it had completely recovered from the earthquake, and the exposition was just the ticket for proving that. The marvel drew visitors by the thousands, including the famous, like Helen Keller, flying ace Eddie Rickenbacker, and Charlie Chaplin. Henry Ford’s onsite assembly plant turned out one automobile every ten minutes for three hours each afternoon. Imagine that! But the spectacle also attracted the infamous, including one enterprising duo selling imitations of the No-vagems that glittered from the exposition’s Tower of Jewels. The Tower’s jewels were sold, but not until after the fair closed in December. This pair of confidence artists jumped the gun by several months. “We’ll catch them,” then Sheriff Thomas A. Finn promised in a headline. But further research uncovered no evidence of that promise fulfilled. It seemed the fair “exposed” the worst of humankind as well as the best. No matter—the more I read, the more I wished I could have seen such sights for myself. It was incredible to think that nothing from the fair had been built to last; the only token of its existence now was the Palace of Fine Arts on the Presidio grounds.
During our coffee break, I asked Bernice and Spot if they’d visited the exposition.
“Once.” Spot sighed. “It was amazing! I caught a glimpse of Thomas Edison!”
“It was a lot of fuss over nothing,” Bernice grumbled. “I had better uses for fifty cents!”
Spot’s eyes glittered. “But for that fifty-cent admission, I have fifty dollars’ worth of memories.”
“Huh,” Bernice grunted. She finished her coffee. “Back to work.”
I didn’t know what would impress Bernice, if an exposition that lured the world to San Francisco’s doorstep had failed to. She reminded me of my early efforts at bread-baking on the homestead, with crusts as hard as stone over a slightly spongy center. If she were hard through and through, she never would’ve given me a chance to clean the newsroom. And I never would have found what I did, a few days later, as I was dusting. It was only a piece of scrap paper on a desktop, but scribbled across it was a question—“date of Tetrazzini free concert? Christmas …’09? ’10? Check the morgue.”
It was as if the message had been left for me. I pulled my notebook out of my apron pocket, tore out a page, and copied the message down carefully. Instead of joining Bernice and Spot for coffee, I slipped down to the morgue and pulled down the volume holding the December 1910 issues.
Bingo! There it was. “Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand Hear Tetrazzini Sing in the Open Air Before the Chronicle Building.” I got shivers looking at the photo of the streets outside the very building I was cleaning, streets teeming with people as far as you could see. Imagine it! Skimming the article, I smiled at some of the flowery description of the audience: “a monumental microcosm of humanity itself … bootblacks rubbed elbows with bankers and painted creatures with fat and wholesome mothers of families.” But still, I could forgive the writer. It must have been some evening. I scribbled “December 24, 1910” on the page from my notebook, put the journal back on the shelf, and hurried upstairs, where I tucked my answer under the carriage bar on the typewriter on the desk, third from the back on the far left. The desk where I’d found the scrap of paper.
Then I scurried back downstairs and back to work, a bit disappointed I wouldn’t see the look on the reporter’s face when he discovered an answer to his question. I felt like one of the shoemaker’s elves, and that made me almost giddy. Tracking down that date had been as satisfying as pounding a fencepost nail in straight and true. And a lot less strenuous. I started to hum a song that Maude often sang, “A Little Bit of Heaven.” My good-deed caper felt like a little bit of heaven. I sighed. A little bit of what it might be like to work as a reporter.
The next evening, the newsroom was abuzz, so I altered my routine and began on a different floor. I had just fetched a fresh bucket of soapy water when I heard my name.
“Hattie?” Bernice’s voice carried down the long hall to where I was cleaning. I poked my head out of the room. “Yes?”
“Best come out here.” The tone of her voice made me want to do just the opposite. But Bernice was not the sort to be ignored. I stepped into the hall.
And came face to face with Ned, as well as a potbellied man who stood behind him, unlit cigar clenched in his teeth.
“Hattie?” Ned stared at me.
“Ned.” I forced a smile. “You’re working late.”
“Several of us are. But that’s neither here nor there. What are you doing?”
I wanted nothing more than to hide behind the feather duster in my hand. Instead I waggled it. “Cleaning.”
“Cleaning?” He couldn’t have looked more surprised if I’d told him I was planning a bank robbery.
“I guess I should have mentioned it.” I noticed a picture frame on the wall and swished the feather duster over it.
“Well. Yes. Cleaning.” He blinked, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Nothing wrong with that, but”—he waved the piece of paper I’d left under the typewriter—“I think you could be doing something different.” He turned and pointed to the man behind him. “Which is what I was explaining to Mr. Monson here.”
Mr. Monson! The managing editor.
“How do you do, sir?” I tucked the feather duster behind my back.
Mr. Monson switched the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Terri
ble. My ulcer’s acting up and Kirk here is about to give me a migraine with another addlepated idea.”
I smiled meekly.
“Here’s what I was thinking.” Ned stroked his moustache. “No reporter I know likes to waste time in the morgue. Not when there are hot stories to track down.”
Mr. Monson chomped.
“So I suggested that we hire you. Like a stringer. Only instead of reporting, you’d research.”
“No reporting?” I said.
“At least, not right away,” Ned added hastily.
“Not likely ever,” groused Mr. Monson.
Bernice grunted and he backed up two paces. “Well—”
“One step at a time,” Ned said brightly. “Now, come on, Hattie, and let’s discuss your new position.”
I couldn’t leave Bernice and Spot in the lurch. “My day ends at six.”
Mr. Monson squawked. “I’ll be sawing logs by then.”
“What about if I come in to work a little early tomorrow night? Say nine? Could we talk then?”
Again Mr. Monson’s cigar switched sides. He squinted at me, but then he nodded. “We could,” he said.
And with that, they were gone.
I couldn’t help myself. I gave Bernice a huge hug. “You are my fairy godmother,” I told her.
She eased out of my clutches. “Pshaw. It’s all your doing, Hattie.” Then she did something so un-Bernice-like, I nearly fainted. She smiled. “You show ’em,” she said. “For us.”
The next night, exactly at nine p.m., I made my way to the newsroom. Ned was watching for me and waved when I stepped off the elevator. The hangers-on by the door parted like the Red Sea as I made my way into the lion’s den. Or, to be precise, the Tiger Woman’s den!
Ned escorted me into Mr. Monson’s office and within five minutes I was being escorted back out, with a new job. Two days a week, I would come to the newsroom around eight to see if I had a research assignment. If there wasn’t one, I could do some filing instead, or make myself useful, in Mr. Monson’s words, before starting my cleaning shift. And they’d pay me a dollar a week!
“Never heard of such a thing before,” Mr. Monson had grumbled. “But I’ll give it a two-week trial. Got it?”
I had nodded, then stuck out my hand. Again I was subjected to his squint, but he stuck out his hand, too, and I shook with the firm grip of one who’d set nearly five hundred rods of fence. I thought I saw a look of approval on his face. But then again, it could’ve been indigestion. “Shall I start tomorrow?” I asked.
“Fine.” With that, he had shooed us out of his office.
At the elevator, I grabbed Ned’s hands. “Thank you, thank you!”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “But you can count on me to spread the word around the office. Though, if you want to feel indebted to me, I don’t mind.” He pressed my hands before letting go. “In fact, I rather like it, Hattie.”
He said the words as if they were arrows and he were Cupid zinging them into my heart.
The elevator arrived and I practically leaped in. “See you later.” Thankfully, the doors closed quickly. I leaned against the brass rail. What was that about? Men!
“Watch that you don’t scour the paint right off that wall,” Bernice scolded moments later as I got to work.
“Sorry.” I eased up on the scrub brush. “I guess I’m just excited about the new job.” No sense mentioning Ned’s craziness to her. The shift passed quickly and I was soon on my way back to the hotel.
Raymond handed me a message when I entered the lobby. It was from Ruby. “Please call” was all it said. He patiently allowed me to dial yet one more free call.
“Hattie?” Her voice escaped in a little sob. “It’s Pearl. She’s sick.”
“I’ll be right over,” I told her.
When I arrived, Ruby was limp on the settee. “I’m so worried,” she said. I brought a cool cloth to wash her face and then went straight to the kitchen to make her a cup of tea.
She managed to sit up and take it from me. The trembling in her hands seemed to ease as she sipped. “I’ve got to go to her.”
“Of course you do.” I could only imagine how desperate she must feel now, so far from her little girl. “And don’t worry about Mr. Wilkes. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
She set her teacup down. “You are so good to me. I am mortally embarrassed to have to ask this. But there was a problem at my bank.…” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t quite have enough for the train ticket.”
“How much do you need?” I reached for my pocketbook.
She named the amount. It was a goodly sum. Everything I had in my pocketbook, in fact.
What was I thinking? I hadn’t been able to help our little Mattie, in the end. But here was the chance to help another sick little girl. And didn’t I have two jobs now?
I put the money on the table. Ruby took my hands and squeezed them hard. “I’ll send word as soon as I know anything.”
“She’ll be fine,” I said, squeezing back. “She’ll be just fine.”
That night, I prayed fervently that my assurances to Ruby would come true.
Home Runs and Inches
July 29, 1919
Dear Leafie,
I write you because I could not worry Perilee with news of a sick child. Ruby’s little Pearl took ill a week or so ago. I wish you’d been there in Santa Clara with your black bag of potions. You would’ve known what to give her to get her back in the pink. Ruby has reported that some small improvement was noted yesterday, for which I am very grateful. Such glad tidings help me walk with a lighter step.
While the elevator rattled upward, I reflected on what I’d learned from Ruby that morning. Pearl had turned a corner, so plans were once again being set in motion to bring her to San Francisco. I was now even more eager to meet my young cousin.
In a sunnier frame of mind than I’d had in days, I stepped out into the newsroom, searching for Ace McCovey, sporting writer for the Chronicle. One of the office boys had found me downstairs the day before to report that Ace needed help with a baseball history question. Though it was to be my day off, I’d said yes. One thing I’d quickly learned was that there are no regular hours for reporters. No time like the present to get used to that notion. My two-week probation was nearly up. And every reporter I’d done research for had been pleased with my efforts. Ned was so certain Mr. Monson would continue the arrangement that he was hosting a dinner for me with Maude and her new beau to mark the occasion. But I’d hung around long enough now to know that it might please Mr. Monson to give me the boot simply because that was what the reporters didn’t want.
I paused a moment, on the edges of the newsroom. That anyone got any work done with all this noise and commotion was nothing short of miraculous. How I loved my small role in this miracle! I fervently believed that one day I would have a larger role. I might never be a Nellie Bly, but wouldn’t it be better to be Hattie Brooks? In daydreams, my writing life was replete with glories.
“Daydreams” was the word for it. I’d already ascertained the kinds of stories a young woman reporter would likely be assigned: “Get a Turban—Don’t Be Dowdy,” or “The Monocle: Fashion Fad?” or “A French Theme Is Planned for Mrs. So-and-So’s Annual Luncheon.”
I made my way to Ace’s desk, where he was engrossed in a heated conversation with Mr. Monson. Ace jabbed his thick index finger on a page of the editor’s open assignment book. “You’ve got me working double duty. I can’t cover the Seals and the auto race!”
“Well, you’re the sporting news. Who else should do it?” Mr. Monson switched his damp cigar to the other side of his mouth. “If you don’t want this job, I can hire someone else.”
Ace loosened his loud tie, answering Mr. Monson’s threat at length, with a few colorful expressions thrown in for good measure. If Aunt Ivy’d been in the vicinity, there would have been a bar of soap applied to Ace’s mouth. With vigor.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” He swabbed h
is forehead with a bandanna handkerchief the size of North Dakota. “I didn’t see you there, Hattie. Sorry about the language.”
I’d heard worse in the newsroom. “No offense taken. Did you have something for me?”
He nodded, pawing around on his messy desk until he found the proper scrap of paper. As I walked away with it, he and Mr. Monson resumed their “discussion.” Each appeared determined to win the argument by sheer volume alone.
“I have a solution for you,” Ned called when they both stopped to take a breath.
“What?” Mr. Monson snarled.
“Who,” Ned replied.
The cigar switched sides again. “Don’t get smart with me, buster.”
“Heaven forbid I should do that!” Ned pushed back from his desk. “What I meant was that my solution is a who.”
“Who?” Ace and Mr. Monson echoed together.
Ned pointed. “Her.”
Two heads pivoted as one, eyes looking first at Ned and then at me.
“Har-di-har-har,” Mr. Monson said in a flat voice. “Very funny.” He slapped the assignment book shut.
A buzz erupted from the crew by the elevators. “I’ll cover it,” some brave soul called out.
Ace tapped some notes I’d given him last week against his desktop. “She’s got a way with words,” he said. “I can vouch for that.”
Mr. Monson chomped hard on his cigar. “I am not running a kindygarten here!” he blustered. “And what in tarnation does she know about baseball?”
Heaven only knows what possessed me. Maybe the good report about Pearl made me think anything was possible. Maybe it was Ned’s taking up my cause. Or maybe it was like Aunt Ivy said: “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
“I know a goodly amount,” I said, clear and strong. “Not only that, I am a fairly respectable pitcher.” That was thanks to Charlie, who’d taken it upon himself to teach me, a southpaw, to throw the ball.
“Oh, my ulcer.” Mr. Monson grabbed his middle. “Get my Bromo-Seltzer!”