by Kirby Larson
The drugstore sign above us swung wildly. A horse whinnied. Someone screamed. Was it me? I held tight to a lamppost while the earth went mad. Buildings groaned. Windows rattled. Cable cars came to a screeching halt. Finally, the shaking stopped, as abruptly as it had started.
I relaxed my grip on the post. “Is it over?” I looked at Mother’s watch, pinned to my bodice: 1:16.
The shopkeeper scrambled to recover his escaped fruit. A street urchin helped himself to a pair of oranges and took off running. For some reason, I began to laugh so hard that tears flowed down my cheeks.
“You all right, miss?” The shopkeeper paused in his cleanup efforts to look me over. “First time?”
I wiped the tears from my cheeks, nodding.
“Well, that was a pretty good one.” He looked around. “Don’t see much damage. Looks like it’s nothing to worry about.”
Within minutes, the sidewalk and street were full of people comparing notes. The china shop lost three teapots. “Spode,” said the manager with a sigh.
“I’ve lost my spectacles.” A frail older woman wandered in my direction, her hat askew and a bump on her nose. “Something fell off the building there.” She made a brushing gesture across her face. “Knocked them clean off.”
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.” But her hands trembled as she attempted to right her hat. I helped her inside the drugstore whose sign still creaked and moaned overhead. The store was a clatter of loud voices and frenetic activity. I stepped over a broken bottle of Vinol cod liver oil and stooped to pick up a few boxes of Rexall Cold Tablets, spilled from the shelf. “May I have a glass of water for my friend?”
The man behind the soda fountain set a glass on the countertop while I helped the woman onto a stool.
“Here.” I held the glass as she took a sip. “Drink it up.”
“All quiet now,” said the counterman. “Just a jolt to get the juices going. Doesn’t look like anything too serious.”
The lady smiled weakly. “I’d rather get my jolt from coffee.” She rummaged in her pocketbook, found an embroidered handkerchief, and blew her nose. “Thank you, my dear. I’ll be all right now.”
“Are you sure? Without your spectacles?”
“Oh, it’s a bit of a blur, but I can manage.” She patted my hand. “Don’t you worry.”
I helped her off the stool, then went back out on the street. Everyone had a story to tell. And I was there to listen, notepad in hand. The young man in the paisley bow tie said he’d been thrown right off the cable car by the jolt. A little girl’s best Mary Janes shook right off her feet. The banker in a pin-striped suit had been on the seventh floor of his building when the earthquake hit. He kept repeating, “It was as if I were swinging in a hammock, back and forth, back and forth.” I collected twenty or thirty stories; then I did what any good reporter would do. I called them in.
When I finished reading off my notes to him, Mr. Monson said, “Well done, young lady. Well done.”
The next morning, I found mention of the earthquake on page four. Someone, maybe the copy reader, had compiled notes from different reporters into one measly column inch of text:
The heaviest earthquake in several years rocked the East Bay around one o’clock yesterday afternoon. Aside from a rattling of windows and dishes, no damage was reported, although occupants of area skyscrapers reported a sensation of swinging as in a hammock.
I would never get credit, but it felt good to know that I—and the pin-striped banker—had contributed in some small way to the news.
Still, I couldn’t help but think that while the city of San Francisco had experienced one earthquake on September 4, 1919, I had experienced two. The earth’s rumbling and reeling had done no real damage. But the other earthquake, the truth about Uncle Chester, had left marks that might never be repaired.
War of Words
September 6, 1919
Dear Perilee,
You may have heard about the earthquake here—my first, and I wouldn’t mind if it was my last. I still feel a bit shaky, but I suppose that’s to be expected.
Don’t feel you have to read the enclosed, but I made you a carbon copy of my women in the work world series. Last night, I finished typing up copies for each of the girls I interviewed; you, and they, will no doubt be the only readers. Regardless, I do feel proud of my efforts. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you—I caught the Tiger Woman’s attention the other night. She was roaring at the new cub reporter about something he’d written. “You.” She pointed to me. “What does one include in every lead?” I meekly answered, “Who, what, where, when, and why.” She turned to the poor reporter and snarled, “Don’t they teach anything in those colleges?” The reporter slunk out of the room and wasn’t seen for two days.
There is a farewell party tonight for the Varietals, Maude included. She says this is her last road trip and the diamond on her left ring finger is proof of that. Orson seems like a fine fellow; I’m so very happy for both of them.
Ruby is still in Santa Clara, but it looks like she’ll be back in another week or so. With Bernice and Spot’s help, Pearl’s quilt is finished. I can’t wait to give it to her!
Your friend,
Hattie
P.S. Do you think I should send a copy of my series to Charlie? I don’t know, as my only Seattle mail comes from you.
Rereading what I’d written, I felt a tiny twinge of guilt for holding back what I’d learned about Uncle Chester. Though I might feel less unburdened in the telling, what I knew would only hurt Perilee, or whichever of his old friends I might choose to confide in. Thank goodness Ruby was still out of town! I would need time before I could face her without wearing such bad news on my face. Aunt Ivy used to say if something’s big enough to worry about, it’s big enough to pray about. So that was what I did as I crawled into bed. “Lord, you can’t change my uncle’s past,” I prayed, “but could you please help me forgive him?”
A few short hours later, I rousted myself from bed. My work schedule had turned me into a night owl; I was rarely up before two or three in the afternoon. But I was eager to give each of the girls I’d interviewed a copy of Female 49ers: San Francisco Women Who Find Gold in Their Work. The copies never would have gotten typed if it hadn’t been for Ned. One night when there had been no research assignments for me, he’d patiently demonstrated the Rational Typewriting Method. Once I mastered a feel for the home keys, it was a snap to get the rest of the Rational Method. Typing up copies of each Female 49ers article provided the perfect means for transforming me from hunt-and-pecker to confident master of the keyboard. It took only a few evenings—and one wastepaper basket full of failed efforts—to accomplish my objective. And now I was eager to gift each interview subject with a copy of her own story.
My first stop was the Fairmont. Florence, one of the hotel maids, had helped me search Miss Clare’s room one time when a favorite kid leather glove had gone missing. It was Florence who’d thought to pull out the dresser drawers, and there it was, stuck inside the frame. When I found her and gave her the copy of the article, you would have thought I was giving her the key to the city. She read it right then and there. “You make me sound like somebody,” she said, teary-eyed.
“Well, you are somebody,” I told her.
She shook her head. “Not to most folks.”
“You know this might never get published,” I said.
“That’s no nevermind.” She pressed the paper to her chest. “Just seeing these words here makes me hold my head higher.” I couldn’t think of anything that had ever made me feel so proud.
I passed Praeger’s on the way to my next delivery and paused for a little window-shopping. Admiring the latest gabardine outfits on display, I couldn’t help but think of Ruby. The good thing about window-shopping is that it is easy on the pocketbook. I decided Ruby would look stunning in the emerald-green ensemble with the shawl collar and made a mental gift of it to her. And the dove-gray number might su
it me. It would be the perfect thing to wear to Maude’s going-away dinner. Perfect, except for the price tag. My faithful yellow dress and jacket would have to do. I turned away from the shop window with a sigh, not so much about not being able to afford a new gown, but suddenly feeling a bit out of sorts and alone, in spite of Florence’s kind words. With Ruby gone and Maude busy wrapping things up in preparation for her road trip, I hadn’t had much female companionship recently. Not that I didn’t enjoy Bernice and Spot, but they were work colleagues. They’d helped me with Pearl’s quilt, but I couldn’t call them social friends. It’d been a long while since I’d enjoyed girl talk over a soda at the drugstore. Or seen the latest romantic comedy at a Sunday matinee. Or curled up with a cup of tea and a sewing project, both made sweeter because of the company.
The final stop on my itinerary was at the hospital where Spot’s sister, Tinny, worked. A sharply starched matron frowned when I asked where I might find her, but grudgingly directed me to the proper floor. I waited while Tinny finished ministering to a patient and then gave her the article. I’d saved her for last because I felt the piece I’d written about her was my very best. Perhaps it was a bit flowery, but I’d compared her to Joan of Arc. There was something so pure and purposeful about her. Ten minutes in her company, you wanted to give your own life over to helping others. Not that she was a saint, like Joan. Tinny’s language could be a bit colorful, and I had it on reliable authority from Spot that Tinny used her knowledge of chemistry to manufacture gin in their basement laundry tub. These latter details did not appear in my piece, for obvious reasons. One of the best quotes from all the girls came from Tinny: “If we weren’t meant to reach out to others, we’d not been given a pair of hands.”
When she came out of the patient’s room, her face lit up with a warm smile. “Well, if it isn’t our own Nellie Bly,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
I handed her the article and she read it there in the hospital hallway. She didn’t say anything for a moment when she finished, just folded it up and put it in her pocket. Then she looked me straight in the eye. “The next thing you bring me will be a newspaper clipping,” she said. “With your name front and center.”
“What a dreamer you are,” I said, shaking my head. Tinny had no idea about my painful discoveries—about Uncle Chester and about myself. At least she believed I could still be a reporter. “But it’s not up to me.”
She pointed her finger at me. “Of course it is! Who else is going to make it happen?”
“Well, I am doing my best.”
Another nurse had come up to us and was obviously trying to get Tinny’s attention. “You better get back to work,” I said.
“I’ll be right there,” Tinny said to the other nurse. She took a step down the hall, then turned back to me, patting her pocket. “Your best doesn’t belong in here. It belongs on the page. ‘Fortune befriends the bold.’ ” She winked. “Emily Dickinson.” With that, she was gone, and I was left to ponder her admonition as I made my way out of the hospital. I wasn’t sure how I could work harder. Tinny simply didn’t understand. My fate was in Mr. Monson’s hands. Not my own.
A church bell somewhere chimed the hour. There was time enough for a hot bath before the evening’s outing. I splurged on a cable-car ride back from the hospital and was soon at the hotel. Maybe I’d even use some of those lilac bath salts Maude had given me. With my mind on such weighty matters, I wasn’t immediately aware of my name being called. “Miss Hattie!” From her tone, Sadie the day clerk had evidently been attempting to get my attention for some time.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “My mind was somewhere else.”
“You got a telephone call.” She handed me a slip of paper with a number written on it. “A Mr. Monson. Says to ring him back. Right away.”
“Mr. Monson?” My light spirits turned to lead. How had he gotten my number? Oh, who cared about that! Why was he calling? On a Saturday? It couldn’t be good news. No. It was bad news. Had to be. My newsroom stint must be over. At least I still had the cleaning job.
“Shall I get the operator for you?” Sadie asked.
“Operator?” He had said to phone right away. “Oh. Yes.”
Sadie peered over the desk at me. “Maybe you’d like to use the phone in the back office.”
“I would. Thank you.” That would be so much better than learning I was being fired out here in the open, in the lobby. “That’s kind of you.”
I followed her to the office and sat in the wooden chair by the telephone.
“Don’t touch anything,” she cautioned. “And make it quick.”
I nodded, then shakily gave the operator Mr. Monson’s number. After three rings on the other end, I heard his gruff “Hello?”
“Mr. Monson?” I squeaked out. “This is Hattie Brooks. You phoned?”
“Brooks.” He mumbled the name as if he were trying to place me. “Brooks. Fine name for a byline,” he said.
This was a funny way to get fired. What was I supposed to say? Thank you?
“So how did it come to you?” he asked. “A bit unorthodox.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. And I wasn’t clever enough to play along as if I did. Taking a deep breath, I confessed my confusion. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I understand.”
Even over the telephone line, I could hear him chewing on his ever-present cigar. I wondered if he ever lit them. “Female 49ers,” he said impatiently. “Though why you gave it to Marjorie rather than me, I can’t imagine.”
I sat hard against the back of the chair. “Miss D’Lacorte had my article?” I’d given away all the copies I’d typed, except for the one in my desk in my room at the hotel.
“Neither here nor there. Can’t say I was sold on the idea at first, but seems like the sort of thing to draw in female readers.” He coughed. “New female readers. Here’s what I’d like to do: run each of the eight pieces over eight Sundays. What do you say?”
He liked my article. He was going to publish it! Wait till I told Bernice and Spot. And Tinny! Tinny. Her words rushed back at me. Fortune befriends the bold. I swallowed. Hard. Maybe I had lassoed that dream. “I’d say that sounds like you’re offering me a job. A reporter’s job.” I squinched my eyes and waited for the explosion from the other end of the line.
It didn’t come. “I’d say you’re right.” He chuckled. “Though Lord help us with you and Marjorie in the same office. We men will be outnumbered.”
A tear wriggled its way out of my left eye and dripped on the handset. “I accept,” I said, trying not to sniffle into the telephone.
“Then plan on starting Monday. I’ll let the employment office know that they have a spot to fill on the cleaning crew. And that we have a new cub reporter.”
Reporter! For the San Francisco Chronicle. Wouldn’t Perilee just pop! Ruby, too! This was news I would even share with Charlie, whether he wrote back or not. I had to let him know that it had been worth it after all. I thanked Mr. Monson, and we said good-bye. I replaced the receiver, but sat with my hand resting on it for several minutes, trying to take it all in. I’d written a story with a San Francisco hook. One good enough to catch an editor’s attention. Would I dare ever ask Miss D’Lacorte how she’d gotten hold of it? Maybe. But not right away.
I practically floated to the restaurant for the farewell party. Maude looked stunning in her newly bobbed hair and flapper-style sheath. The pearls around her neck hung nearly to her knees. When I made my way over to her, Orson was tugging on the strand. “This makes a handy leash,” he said. “Maybe I’ll hang on so tight you won’t be able to leave.”
“But, darling, I must,” she said. “That way you can miss me all the more.” They both laughed, and Maude dragged Orson to the dance floor.
“There you are!” Ned was at my side. “Thought you’d never get here.”
“I’m not even late,” I said. “Don’t be silly.”
“Come on. We’re over this way.” At the table, he held out my
chair for me and then sat to my right. “You are positively glowing tonight.”
I was bursting to tell my news, but this was Maude’s evening. The spotlight should be fully on her. Besides, it might be more fun to surprise Ned on Monday morning. And would he be surprised!
“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.
“Oh, I’m just thinking about Monday.” I smiled, pressing back a giggle.
“Monday? No, no, no.” He pretended to knock on my head. “Absolutely not. This is Saturday night, a time for fun and frivolity. Not work.”
I smiled again. “I will force myself to have fun and be frivolous.”
“That’s the spirit.” The waiter came by and Ned ordered two ginger ales. Maude and Orson joined us, Maude’s cheeks flushed pink from dancing.
“What are you two sticks in the mud doing here?” she demanded. “Out on the dance floor.”
“By orders of Her Majesty,” Orson piped in. Maude stuck her tongue out at him.
“Oh, I’m a terrible dancer,” I said. “Two left feet and all that.”
Ned stood and extended his hand to me. “Then we will make the perfect partners.” He lifted me to my feet and out on the dance floor for a waltz.
“Shame on you for being such a liar,” I told him. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”
“Only because I have a wonderful partner.” He drew me closer. My stomach did a little flip. But I didn’t push away. In fact, I leaned my cheek on his lapel. The wool was warm and soft against my skin. “This is nice,” I murmured.
He tilted my head up. “Very nice.” The band finished the waltz number but we stayed on the dance floor. I thought we were doing the fox-trot but I really wasn’t sure. I simply followed Ned’s lead.
“I could get used to having you for a partner,” Ned said.
“We do manage fairly well together,” I said as we negotiated a turn.
“I was thinking beyond the dance floor. And the newsroom.”