by Kirby Larson
Ruby had telephoned—long-distance!—the very day her copy arrived. “I am certain I’ll be home by the middle of October. We shall celebrate all of your accomplishments then,” she’d promised. She had happy tidings, too. It turned out she’d lost her job not because of her absences, but because Mr. Wilkes had proposed! I was thrilled for her.
Any other time, I would have been so pleased about my change in circumstances, I could have smoked one of Mr. Monson’s cigars myself. But my joy was tempered by tragedy. Only one week after my conversation with Mr. Wilson, he collapsed in Colorado and was rushed back to Washington, D.C. And one week after that, he suffered a stroke. Every day I checked the telegraph desk for the latest from the White House about his health. Ominously, such reports were few and far between.
My new role was not all glamour. Most of my assignments were along the lines of the one Mr. Monson had given me yesterday, to write three hundred words on “Tulle: Fashion or Faux Pas?” And he had yet to give me a firm commitment on when he’d run my 49ers series. But today I had something meatier. I was typing up the last paragraphs when Mr. Monson stuck his head out of the office.
“Hattie, are you finished with that piece on the bus station kidnapping?” A thirteen-year-old girl had been found, dazed and tearful, at the bus station the day before. She claimed she’d been kidnapped, but her story didn’t add up. Looked like an unhappy runaway to me.
I pointed to the page in my typewriter. “Nearly.” I picked up the pace on my typing.
Mr. Monson came to read over my shoulder. “Who says it wasn’t a kidnapping?”
“Well, from everything I heard, it sounded like she was making the whole thing up.”
He chomped down on his cigar. “So now you’re a detective as well as a reporter?”
“No …”
He yanked my story out of the typewriter, spinning the platen as he pulled. “This is not news. This is fantasy!” He tore the sheet into little bits and scattered them like snow-flakes around my desk. “Call Detective West.”
“I did. He hasn’t called back yet.”
He pressed his hand to his forehead. “You don’t wait for him to call you,” he bellowed. “You call him. Again and again, if need be.” He looked at the newsroom clock. “I’m closing the issue in thirty-five minutes and I want that story.” He stomped back to his office.
I swept some of the paper bits into my hand and dumped them in the wastepaper basket. As I began to dial up Detective West, Miss D’Lacorte caught my eye. “You’re lucky it was only your story he tore up. Sometimes he tears up the reporter!” Then she winked at me. “You’re doing great, kid.”
I made the deadline, turning in essentially the same copy I’d written before, because, as I’d suspected, the whole kidnapping story had indeed been a complete fabrication. The difference between the two versions, however, was the fact that in the second one, I had a credible authority, Detective West, confirming my hunch. I should have known better.
Ned breezed into the newsroom. “Hattie, how are things going?” His tone made me think we were on an even keel again. I started to tell him about my run-in with Mr. Monson, but he stopped me. “I’ve got lots to do here,” he said. “Let’s chat later. Over supper?” Flashing me a bright smile, he tossed his hat on the desk and pulled out the chair. “Be a pal and bring me a cup of coffee, will you?”
Miss D’Lacorte gave me a questioning look as I headed for the coffeepot. “Can I get you a cup, too?” I asked.
“My legs aren’t broken,” she answered. I knew what she was getting at, but I just laughed it off.
When I returned with the coffee, Ned was in conference with Mr. Monson. I set the cup on his desk. Of course, I couldn’t help but read his notes as I did so. Because of his atrocious penmanship, Ned often left his notes lying around. I was the only one who could translate them.
And what I read rocked me back on my heels. I snatched up the papers and stormed across the room. “What is this?” My hands shook as I held out the sheets. “This is my story. My story.”
“Now, now, Hattie.” Mr. Monson tried to pat my arm.
“Ned?” I looked at my friend. Or at the person I had thought was my friend.
“Those were my notes,” he blustered.
I wasn’t about to stand down. “Those were my stories.”
“Mr. DeYoung liked the idea of the Female 49ers but thought the stories needed a masculine slant. None of that sob-sister stuff.” He shrugged. “What the publisher says goes.”
I couldn’t have been more stunned if Ned had slapped me. “I told those stories true.” There was not one mawkish word in the entire series. Sob sister? Nothing could be further from the truth.
“The important thing is that those stories will reach thousands of readers,” said Mr. Monson in a tone one might use when speaking to a child.
I thought of Tinny. And Florence. Yes, it was important that their stories were told. But it would never have occurred to the men standing in front of me to tell those stories if I hadn’t given them the idea. “You talked to all of my sources? Even Tinny?”
Ned had the courtesy to look chagrined. “Well, yes. But I added a few others as well.”
I shoved the papers at him. “That’s big of you.” There was nothing more to say. Ned had pitched me his own version of a snake ball, and I’d been struck out. I stumbled back to my desk and sat there, shaking with anger. And disappointment.
“It’s business, Hattie.” Ned edged over to my desk. “Nothing personal.”
“What’s going on?” Miss D’Lacorte stopped typing.
“It feels pretty personal.” I bit the inside of my lip. Hard. If I cried now, I’d never forgive myself. I was no sob sister. I turned to Miss D’Lacorte. “Mr. DeYoung decided my 49ers series needed the male touch.”
“What?” She pushed back from her desk. “I wonder how that happened.” She glared at Ned.
“Let’s step down the hall to talk.” He tugged on my arm. “Out of this fishbowl.”
“No.” I hunkered down in my chair. “If it’s business, we can talk here.”
His face fell. “I don’t want to compete with you.”
“Then give me back my story.”
“That’s not my decision, it’s Monson’s, and it’s been made.”
At that, Miss D’Lacorte leapt up and dashed into Mr. Monson’s office, shutting the door behind her. Hard.
Ned tugged on his tie. “I was hoping you’d go out to dinner with me. We’ll paint the town red.”
I stared at him. What on earth could he be thinking? “No, thank you.” I pulled out a piece of paper and rolled it under the platen. I had no idea what I was going to type, but I needed to do something with my hands.
“Come on, Hattie. Don’t hold a grudge.” He made his puppy dog eyes at me. “Aren’t you happy for your old chum?”
I counted to ten before attempting an answer. “I already have plans tonight.” Plans that involved eating a tin of soup in my hotel room, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Another night, then,” he said.
I started typing without responding.
He glanced over my shoulder. “What are you writing about?”
“Why do you ask?” I hit the carriage return. “Or did you plan on stealing this story, too?”
“Hattie!” Ned took a step back.
“I’ve got lots to do here,” I told him, throwing his earlier words back at him. “Be a pal and get me a cup of coffee, will you?”
Ned stood there a moment and then walked away.
He never did bring me that cup of coffee.
Dinner and Disaster
October 12, 1919
Dear Hattie,
How’s this for a headline: “Mechanic Moves North”? Maybe it’s not as catchy as what you might write, but it tells the tale. There seemed no solid reason for me to refuse Mr. Hubbard’s offer of a job in Alaska. And if anyone should understand about taking a chance to follow a dream, you should. I hope
you will wish me well.
Yours truly,
Charlie
P. S. I promise to steer clear of polar bears.
There are earthquakes that shake the body, like the one I’d been through the month before. And then there are earthquakes that rattle the soul. Charlie’s letter fell into that latter category. How could I say anything against his plans to go north, when he had not said a word against my plans to stay in San Francisco? And yet his letter left me as uneasy and uncertain as any seismic activity. As I made my way to work the day after receiving it, all I could do was wonder where my next shake-up would come from.
My solution to keep further disaster at bay was to put nose to grindstone. I cheerfully took whatever Mr. Monson assigned me, even the fashion bits. That strategy seemed to work, as several days went by without his making confetti of one of my stories. The gaps between my interactions with Ned stretched out too, until one Friday night, I saw him leaving with that sunny redheaded telephone operator I’d met my first day in the city. I experienced only the teeniest, tiniest twinge. The bigger twinge came when I learned that Ned was not only wooing someone else, but being wooed by the Chicago Tribune. I heard about it late one afternoon from Gill. Or rather, I overheard it. He threw a bone of encouragement to the pack of hopefuls ever waiting for their break. “Hold fast, you bright young men. Kirk may be leaving for another sheet. The Chicago Tribune.”
“That so?” Ace joined the conversation.
Gill yanked a story from his typewriter. “Boy!” One of the office boys came running and took it to the copy reader. “He really got their attention with that idea for a series on women in the work world. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on his way up,” he continued.
Ace cleared his throat and jerked his head my way.
“Oh, sorry, Hattie.” Gill ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t think—”
I pasted a smile on my face. “Guess we’ll have to take up a collection for him. Get him a nice going-away present.”
“Yeah,” Gill agreed halfheartedly. He glanced over at me. “Any ideas?”
“I know just what we could get him,” Miss D’Lacorte called over.
“What?” Ace asked.
“A new knife.” She pointed a red-painted fingernail at me. “He seems to have left his old one in Hattie’s back.”
Ace and Gill both chuckled and got back to work. Miss D’Lacorte plunked herself down on the corner of my desk.
“I will not beat around the bush.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “You, my young friend, do not look happy.”
“Of course I’m happy.”
She pursed her lips. “Your fingers may be happy. Your hair may be happy. For all I know, even your knees are happy.”
Her silliness got a smile out of me. “Sounds like I’m one big bucket of happiness.”
“There’s a hole in that bucket.” She leaned in toward me. “The eyes.”
I picked up a stack of papers on my desk, tap-tapping them into a squared-up sheaf. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I, most of the time.” She kicked off her pumps and swung her legs as she sat, causing my already unstable desk to sway. “But one thing I do know: this job isn’t everything.”
“I know that,” I said.
“Oh, really.” Her legs stopped midswing, and she raised her left eyebrow. “Name one thing you’ve done for fun lately.”
I continued cleaning off my desk. She didn’t move from her perch.
“I went to the newsboys’ picnic.”
“That was work.” She crossed her arms. “Not play. And whatever happened to that nice airplane mechanic?”
I leaned over to put the cover on my typewriter. A tear splashed on it.
Miss D’Lacorte slid off the desk and back into her shoes. “I need a steak and am tired of dining alone. We are going out to dinner.” When she saw that I had my mouth open to protest, she held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Get your coat.”
It was pointless to argue with Marjorie D’Lacorte. That much I’d learned since arriving at the Chronicle. I had to admit I would not mind skipping my usual tin of soup. “Dutch treat,” I said.
“Your money’s no good where we’re going. So don’t argue.” She slipped into a navy flannel coat with a fur collar. “And tonight you call me Marjorie. Don’t argue about that, either.”
I didn’t.
We walked through the crisp evening air, passing businessmen carrying briefcases and umbrellas, and ladies of the house with packages tumbling out of their arms. Soon we were in a part of the city that was new to me. Tall, narrow homes huddled together on the street like Aunt Ivy and her cronies at a coffee klatch. As we walked, I learned that Miss D’Lacorte—Marjorie—had an older brother, Tom, who’d been a pilot in the war. “When he turned up missing, I joined the Red Cross to find him. That’s how I got in the reporting business. Sending dispatches home.”
“So you found him?” I asked.
Her gloved hand rested in front of her mouth. “I did.” After a moment, she continued. “Do you know what he’d done? Named his plane after me.” She cleared her throat. I waited for more of the story but it didn’t come.
Her pocketbook clicked open and she dabbed her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. “I’ve worked for lots of sheets. Chicago. Kansas City. Seattle, too. At the Times.” She tucked her handkerchief away. “Now, there’s an editor for you: C. B. Blethen. Cannot abide females in the newsroom.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.” She gave a low chuckle. “Too bad I was their best reporter. Oh, did that give him conniptions.” She took my arm, turning me to face the opposite side of the street. “Thar she blows.” She pointed to a very elegant-looking restaurant.
We crossed over, stepped inside, and were quickly seated. I tried to stay upright when I read the menu prices. When the waiter came, I ordered a small salad and cup of soup.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Marjorie slapped her hand on the crisp white tablecloth. “Forget that nonsense. Bring us two steaks. With the works.” The waiter seemed to know her, because very quickly a glass was set in front of her, two olives bobbing in a clear liquid. I was brought a ginger ale. Marjorie lifted her glass. “To you, Hattie.” We clinked, then she sipped and sighed. “Ambrosia.”
Dinner was delicious, but Marjorie’s stories were even better. Some were hard to believe—could she really have danced with General Pershing?—but I didn’t care. The evening was flying by delightfully, and without my once touching a can opener.
Dessert was apple pie. À la mode. I wouldn’t need to eat for a week. “This is all so wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”
She took one small taste of her pie, then slid the plate aside. “Your life is none of my business, of course. But let me offer some uninvited advice.” She chuckled. “I suppose most advice falls in that category.”
I swallowed and put my full attention on her. Advice from a seasoned reporter would be welcome, invited or not.
“This is a hard row you’re hoeing, Hattie Brooks. I should know. I’ve been down it myself.” She wet her finger to pick a crumb of crust off her dessert plate.
“I have to pay my dues. I know that.” Though how many more column inches I could type about hemlines and hairstyles, I wasn’t sure.
She studied me. “I’m not talking about the newspaper.”
I frowned, puzzled. “I don’t follow you.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
It seemed as if she were speaking in code and I didn’t have the key. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve missed something.”
“I think you have, too.” She leaned toward me. “I saw your face when you were with your mechanic at the airfield that day. Saw his, too.” She whistled. “You seemed pretty glad to see him when you landed.”
“We’re good friends.” The restaurant had grown stuffy. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
“I could see that.” Her eyes twinkled an
d I flushed. “You’re pretty lucky to have a good friend like that. Not like some of the other men we know.”
I studied my dessert plate, fully aware she was referring to Ned. “There’s probably no one kinder than Charlie. But he wanted to make plans for us.” I rested my chin on my hands. “And I need to make plans for me.”
The waiter slipped the bill on the table. “And his plans and your plans don’t mesh?” Marjorie asked.
“I can’t get married!” I took a sip of ginger ale. “Besides, he’s moving to Alaska.”
She studied me. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
I couldn’t believe it. Here I thought she had taken me out to dinner to give me a pep talk. “Miss—I mean, Marjorie. You know how hard it is in this business, especially if you’re a woman. But a married woman?” I shook my head at the thought of that complication.
She glanced at the bill and opened her handbag. “If you are looking for someone to emulate, I am not that person.”
Melted ice cream dribbled off my piece of pie onto the plate. I poked at it with my fork, but now had lost all taste for its sweetness.
She stood.
I could not forget my manners. “Thank you. It was delicious.”
“You can find your way home from here?” she asked. “I’m around the corner.”
No wonder the waiter had known what to bring her. “Yes, I’m fine.” Well, I wasn’t fine, but that was no call to be rude.
“Hazel Archibald,” she said as we stepped outside.
“Pardon?”
“Hazel Archibald. Works at the Seattle Times. She’s married.” Marjorie finished buttoning her coat. “See you tomorrow.”
I watched her walk away, reflecting on the evening. I now regretted the rich dinner sitting heavily in a stomach accustomed to one of Campbell’s twenty-one varieties of canned soup. My heart was heavy, too. Why did Miss D’Lacorte have to bring up Charlie? It had taken all of my willpower to write back, and wish him well, after his letter. Why should it bother me that he was going after his dream? I’d expected him to allow me to go after mine.
And what of that dream? Sure, I had a job at the Chronicle. But I was no Nellie Bly, Grand Adventurer, Great Writer. Never would be. I was not even a Marjorie D’Lacorte. I was only Hattie.