Hattie Ever After

by Kirby Larson

  I nodded. I knew what he’d been thinking. “Ned, I’m not ready to make any decisions.”

  “Then I’ll make them for us.” He smiled. “Deal?”

  I laughed. “No deal.”

  He stuck out his lower lip in a pout as we twirled to a stop when the song ended. “Can we at least start seeing each other more often?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry.” I took his arm as we walked back to our table. “I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot more of me. A lot more.”

  He patted my hand. “Speaking as a reporter, may I say that that is the best news I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “And what are you two whispering about?” Maude teased as we sat down.

  “Good news,” I said. I winked at Ned, thinking how much fun Monday morning was going to be. “Very good news.”

  Stuck In Between

  September 16, 1919

  Dear Charlie,

  Thank you so very much for the card of congratulations. I am keeping it on my desk. My first days as cub reporter have flown by, absorbed as I am by high-level preparations for President Wilson’s upcoming visit to promote the League of Nations. Just for instance: I was assigned to pester City Hall for a copy of the mayor’s welcome speech, and to study railroad maps to calculate the mileage our country’s leader has traveled in his campaign, and let’s not forget the two days spent attempting to find out whether Mrs. Wilson prefers gardenias or violets. The jury’s still out on the latter topic, so our publisher, Mr. DeYoung, is sending bouquets of each to the Presidential Suite at the Fairmont. It is not all froth and foolishness. Mr. Monson, the managing editor, has paired me up with a more experienced reporter to cover some of the events while the president is in town. That should be quite thrilling.

  How fascinating that Eddie Hubbard plans to expand air service into Alaska. I am certain that the far north is ripe for such an expansion. Do remember, please, that there are polar bears and other unfriendly creatures in such environs that might find a corn-fed Iowa farm boy awfully tasty.

  Yours truly,

  Hattie

  I had decided not to tell Charlie that my newsroom partner was Ned. Not when Charlie and I were back on “speaking” terms, however fragile. I’d been an official employee of the newsroom for seven days, and six of those had been spent in Ned’s company. After the first day or so, we found our way to a good working routine, which mostly involved Ned telling me what to do and my doing it. Everyone in the newsroom was keyed up over the president’s visit, working to find some angle the Call or Examiner hadn’t. When I had wondered aloud about doing a piece on the female perspective on the League of Nations, Ned had pooh-poohed it. “You’ve got that working women’s series already. You don’t want to turn into a one-issue reporter.” I was generally grateful for Ned’s advice, but this hit me funny. We were too busy, though, to dwell on it much. We were all working long hours under tense conditions. It was not unlike trying to plant seed in a windstorm. At one point, I’d even seen Mr. Monson stick a cigar in his mouth—oblivious to the fact that he was already gnawing on one. I’d been dying to ask him about exactly when he planned to run my 49ers story, but the moment had not presented itself. Now we were all frenzied, what with the big day tomorrow. I glanced at the newsroom clock. Tomorrow would be arriving in just an hour.

  “Two lunchtime speeches at the Palace Hotel and one at the Civic Auditorium in between.” Ned shook his head as he read the schedule sent over to the paper by the president’s secretary. “The man must be made of iron.”

  I thought of my own few train trips, wearying and gritty. Of course, the president traveled in a Pullman car, not in second class, like I had. But he was an old man, nearly sixty. I knew from my research that he’d be covering eight thousand miles in about three weeks, giving dozens of speeches, including those here in town. “He must really believe in the cause.”

  Ned didn’t answer. He was already pounding away at his typewriter, lost in thought.

  I picked an out-of-town newspaper off his desk. “President Goes to the People,” it said. The writer was good. In a few paragraphs, he captured the gist of the story: that when the Senate refused to approve the creation of the League of Nations, President Wilson had gone straight to the people of America. He wouldn’t take the Senate’s no for an answer. The part I couldn’t fathom was why senators would vote against the League if it was intended to help prevent future wars, as the president insisted. The whole affair must be more complicated than I realized.

  “Is there anything else you need me to do?” I covered my mouth with my notebook to hide a yawn. “If not, I might head on home.”

  “What is this?” Miss D’Lacorte must have overheard me. “You want to sleep?” She shook her head. “This job has many rich rewards, including occasionally earning a living wage.” She barked out a laugh. “But a full night’s sleep? That’s for copy readers, not reporters.”

  Blushing at my blunder, I looked again to Ned. “Anything I can do?” I guessed I could sleep when this was all over.

  He stopped typing. “Confirm the parade route with the city desk and”—now he yawned—“scrounge me up some coffee.”

  The pot in the newsroom had gone dry, but I knew where to find some. And Bernice and Spot were more than happy to share. “Our Hattie, interviewing the president,” Spot said with a shake of her head. “Makes me feel like I’m part of something awful special.”

  “I hate to break it to you, Spot, but I am only the errand girl. The closest I’ll come to interviewing the president is typing whatever Ned writes up or Miss D’Lacorte calls in.”

  “Pshaw,” said Bernice.

  “You gotta think big, Hattie.” Spot gave me a tap on the shoulder. “Big.”

  “Big.” I filled Ned’s coffee cup. “Got it.”

  Ned accepted the hot coffee gratefully. “Almost done here,” he said. “You can decipher my handwriting.” He handed me a couple of pages of his notes. “You type these pages and I’ll type the rest. We’ll be done in half the time, and then I’ll drive you home.”

  I yawned again. “Deal.” The faster I got home, the faster I’d be under my covers. The president’s ferry was set to dock at nine-thirty in the morning, and we’d need to be in place hours before that.

  Half an hour or so later, we were both finished. “Ready?” Ned asked.

  I answered with a sleepy nod, gathered my things, and followed him to his car. The next thing I knew, Ned was nudging me awake. “Hattie, we’re here. At the hotel.”

  “That’s fine.” I leaned my head against his shoulder. “Wake me when we get there.”

  “We are here, you goose. All ashore who’s going ashore.” He made a noise like a ferry boat whistle.

  I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Already?”

  “And I’ll be back again before you know it.” He handed me my hat, which had somehow fallen into his lap.

  I took it from him, and he slipped out from behind the steering wheel to open the passenger door for me.

  He tugged me out of the car. “As much as I would love to take you home with me, I think you’d best get out.”

  That comment had better effect than ten cups of coffee. “Aye, aye, sir.” I popped to my feet and saluted. “See you bright and early tomorrow.” I remembered it was already tomorrow. “I mean, today.”

  Ned grabbed my saluting arm and tugged me to him, planting a kiss smack on my lips. “Good night, Hattie.”

  I pulled away, then brushed my lips. “Ned!”

  He tugged me close again. “Yes, Hattie?”

  I straightened my hat and smoothed my dress. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I hurried inside and got ready for bed, but once I was under the covers, I felt as rattled as I had up in Eddie Hubbard’s seaplane. Ned and I were like a team of oxen yoked to the same plow, and not simply because I was one of the few in the newsroom who could read his handwriting. He scarcely had to finish a question before I knew exactly what he wanted. I was great at research;
he was great at putting all my research together. I was learning how to do that, too, but I wasn’t in his league. Yet. I loved my crazy new job, despite the terrible hours. I wondered—would I have loved it as much without Ned? Was there more to our collaboration? And, more importantly, what did it mean that I had been tempted to kiss him back?

  A few short hours later, I awoke to a party. A real hullabaloo! San Francisco had pulled out all the stops. Banners rippled above shop windows, flags flew on every corner, flower stands multiplied overnight. The street noise seemed jollier, and passersby moved on lighter feet. Cable cars and trolleys were jammed. As we passed in Ned’s automobile, the men hanging off the sides of the trolleys waved and hollered. From the backseat, I hollered, too, caught up in the excitement. Flash rode in the front, snapping photo after photo.

  Ned had paid one of his sources to meet us near the Ferry Building to park the car. “Come back for us in an hour,” Ned told him as he handed the man a few dollar bills.

  “You got it!” A gold tooth glittered as he grinned.

  We rushed into the terminal. There was no mistaking which ferry the president was riding—it was as splendidly adorned as the city itself and resembled a decorated birthday cake. All it lacked were candles on top.

  “Excuse us, lady coming through.” Part of Ned’s plan was to use me much as Moses had used his staff to part the Red Sea. The gentlemen of the press, already snugged together like spoons in a drawer, at first responded to Ned’s announcement out of instinct. Like that great sea, the multitudes parted, and we maneuvered our way to a choice spot closer to the front. Soon, the sager reporters refused to tumble to Ned’s ploy, and we were stymied. Still, our vantage point was near enough to see the ferry dock and hear the band play a stirring Sousa march for the disembarking president and his first lady.

  “Got enough?” Ned asked Flash, who nodded. “Then let’s skedaddle and beat this mob to the next stop.”

  I’d nosed around and discovered that the president would ride up Market Street and then retire to the Fairmont Hotel to rest before his first speech. Ned dropped Flash and me off along the parade route and hurried back to the paper to file his initial report. A softer version of a battering ram, Flash pushed his way through the throngs, me tight to his side. As far as I could see, up the avenue and down, were people and people and even more people. All cheering at the top of their lungs. Soon the president’s open car rolled into sight, escorted by the cavalry on their smartly prancing steeds, then marines, then sailors, all dashing in their crisp uniforms. Not far from us, a gaggle of schoolchildren waved flags and cheered, “Hip, hip, hooray!” Had I not been taking notes for Ned, I would have waved and cheered as well. There was something wonderfully infectious about it all.

  “I’ve got enough photos,” said Flash as the president’s car drove out of view. He shouldered his gear bag. “Coming?”

  I reluctantly tore myself away from the scene, showing him my notes. “I have to find a telephone and call this in.” That was part of our plan, Ned’s and mine: for me to be his eyes and legs. My next stop was the Fairmont. But that was our little secret. Ned’s idea was that I would hang around the hotel and wait for a chance to catch the president on his own. The press all knew of his dislike for secret service men. Ned got the goods from a source in Seattle that the president snuck out there to the Pike Place Market to buy a bouquet of flowers for Mrs. Wilson. Ned was pretty sure he might get antsy again in San Francisco. And if he was, Ned wanted to be ready.

  “All right. See you later, Hattie.” Flash lumbered up the street under the weight of his equipment.

  I hadn’t told Ned, but I had decided his idea called for a bit of fine-tuning. And Florence was just the person to help me tune. She was more than happy to loan me a maid’s uniform and to tell me which room was the Wilsons’. Less than an hour after arriving at the hotel, I had stashed my own things in a cleaning cart and was pushing it back and forth in the hallway, trying to look as if I belonged. I believe I was able to keep an outward appearance of calm, but inside, I was a mishmash of misery. What if I was caught? My heart was pounding as loud as a parade drum. Nellie Bly had several times gone undercover in search of a story; how on earth had she done it?

  “Miss?” a male voice behind me called out. “Oh, miss.”

  I turned, plastered on what I hoped looked like a maid’s smile, and answered, “Yes, sir?”

  “I seem to have locked myself out of my room. Just there.” Dressed in the dark suit of a banker, he jingled the coins in his pocket. “Could you let me in?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “Let you in?” The one part of the maid’s disguise Florence could not provide was a set of master keys. I patted my pockets. “Oh, my. I seem to have left my keys downstairs.”

  “Well, go get them.” He spoke like someone used to having others at his beck and call.

  “Certainly, sir.” I nodded and backed away toward the elevator. When the door opened, I stepped in, just behind a slim white-haired gentleman. That earned a frown from the elevator boy. “Service elevator,” he hissed at me.

  “Sorry. In a hurry.” I smiled, hoping that answer would satisfy him.

  “Lobby, please,” the older gentleman asked.

  “Yes, sir!” The operator answered with such enthusiasm I wondered if he was expecting a tip. I glanced at the older man. His skin was the color of Mr. Monson’s cigar ash, and he leaned heavily against the brass hand railing that ran waist-high all around the car.

  The boy pushed the button, but instead of smoothly descending, the car bucked and thumped and ground to a halt.

  “Must have hit a bump in the road.” The elevator boy smiled with his mouth, but his eyes didn’t join in the joke. He pounded a few buttons. “We’re stuck.”

  “Isn’t there something you can do?” I asked, tongue clicking in my suddenly dry mouth. What if the cables gave way and we crashed to the bottom? What a wretched time to have a vivid imagination.

  The old man cleared his throat. “Might you not call for help?”

  I had been so wrapped up in my cloak-and-daggering that I had not really taken a good look at my fellow passenger. I leaned myself against the brass railing, too, as I realized who he was. The very man I’d been trying to corral!

  “Oh, yes, sir!” The tassels on the elevator boy’s shoulders swung as he reached for a red receiver. He turned a crank and shouted into the mouthpiece. “It’s shaft number three. We’re stuck.” He listened intently, head bobbing up and down; then he disconnected. “They’re working on it. Fast as they can.”

  “That’s good news.” President Wilson’s smile softened his gaunt features. His eyes held a kindness that reminded me of Uncle Holt.

  The elevator telephone shrilled. The boy answered it, listening intently. “Yes. I’ll tell them.” He set the receiver back in its cradle. “We’re to sit tight. They should have us out of here lickety-split.”

  “Right, then,” said the president. “I don’t suppose either of you would care to share your thoughts about the League of Nations?”

  One long hour later, we were released from our iron cage. Mr. Wilson—that was what he told the boy, Butch, and me to call him—was promptly whisked away by his aides. The hotel manager handed Butch and me bottles of icy-cold Coca-Cola. I rolled the contoured bottle against my sweaty neck and forehead, then sipped it gratefully. I decided that the manager didn’t need to know I really wasn’t in the hotel’s employ as a maid. After the manager had gone back to his duties, I asked Butch if there was a telephone I might use. He took me to the bellhops’ office.

  I dialed and Miss D’Lacorte answered. I asked for Ned. “He’s gone out,” she said. “Is there something I can do?” I told her about what had happened. And she laughed. “Wait till Monson hears this. Don’t go away.” I heard the receiver being set down and then Mr. Monson picked up. “I have a story you might be interested in,” I told him.

  “What? How many balloons were sold along the parade route?” he asked. �
�Hattie, I’m busy. Big things happening. The president’s speech is in less than an hour.”

  “Well, I’ve just been speaking with him for the past hour.” I could feel a Cheshire cat grin spreading across my face. “But if you’re not interested, I can always ring up the Call.”

  “Is this the gospel truth?” I could practically smell soggy bits of tobacco being spit into the telephone.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  To me, he shouted, “Get back here! On the double.” To someone on the other end, he shouted, “Stop the presses!”

  Those words were even more delicious than that cold soda.

  Byline Hattie Brooks

  The President and the Prairie Girl

  An Unexpected Conversation

  By HATTIE BROOKS

  SAN FRANCISCO, SEPTEMBER 17: Little did I know that an elevator ride would lead to a thoughtful conversation with the great man who is leading our great nation into a new time. His beliefs are not always popular, but he defends his actions, saying, “The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it.”

  Good and bad are often flip sides of the same coin. My first front-page article, with proper byline, elevated me from cub to reporter. The whole newsroom chipped in for a gardenia corsage, which I wore until it wilted. Gill let me know, however, that Ned hadn’t chipped in for the flowers. I wasn’t surprised. He was the senior reporter of our team, and I had ended up with the scoop. That wouldn’t sit well with him. What was surprising was that Mr. Monson found me a Remington Junior typewriter—“Seventeen Pounds of Satisfaction”—with a complete set of working keys, and I began to find my name in his assignment book on a regular basis.

  I sent clippings of my President Wilson interview to everyone—Uncle Holt, Perilee, Leafie, Rooster Jim, and Ruby. Even Charlie. He wrote right back, saying, “Nothing like starting at the top! Who’s next? The king of England?” Good old Charlie, letting me know that he was on my side even if building up my dream meant tearing down part of his.