The Harlot’s Pen

by Claudia H Long

  “My dear. You must face reality. No one could possibly believe that a woman wrote that. It would mean that I had hired a harlot. No, it must be tempered with a masculine pen, and you mustn’t have your name associated with it.”

  I sat for a bit, then realized he was probably right. I thought about the reaction to The Rape of the Working Woman and the trouble it brought me. It was one thing to stumble into trouble unknowingly, but to court it was a whole other brand of foolishness.

  “But I do have something else for you,” Fremont Older said. “I’ve been looking for a junior editor for the Sacramento desk. I’ve hired women as junior editors before and found them to be devoted workers. Are you interested? The pay isn’t bad. Not what a high class whore would make, but then again, you can keep your clothes on for this job.”

  So, I got a job as a newspaper woman! I told Jacqueline and Francis at dinner while thanking them profusely for everything. “Oh, don’t thank us,” Francis said. “You have always brought such a measure of excitement to our lives that I hesitate to think how dull we’d be without you!”

  A compliment, I am sure.

  * * * *

  July 15, 1920

  San Francisco, CA

  I got a shock today. I was at the Call working on some copy, as Fremont, as I now call him, is training me in reporting before sending me to Sacramento. In walked William Randolph Hearst. He almost had apoplexy when he saw me.

  “Will, this is Violetta Stone. She wrote the basics for the serial you enjoyed so much, The Working Girl’s Downfall. Violetta, this is Mr. William Hearst.”

  I stood up and offered my hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Minutes later Mr. Hearst called me into his office. It’s palatial, with fantastic cherry wood furnishings and windows where you can see down Market Street all the way to the Ferry Building. “Well, now, Violet. What a surprise.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir. For both of us.”

  We sat there looking at one another for a few minutes, and finally Mr. Hearst burst out laughing. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, more than once.

  Then he stood up and shook my hand again. “Welcome to the Hearst Newspapers Enterprise.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, smiling back. His secrets are safe with me and mine with him. Of that I am sure.

  * * * *

  August 25, 1920

  Sacramento, CA

  Commission Agrees Higher Pay For Women Is Necessary

  By V. Stone

  Any compensation under $18 per week is not sufficient for a working woman, representatives of all industries told the Industrial Welfare Commission last night at a mass meeting held at the Hall of Records. A.B.C. Dohrmann, chairman of the commission, presided at the meeting and called on the different classes of workers for their opinion regarding the wage situation. During the discussion, Mr. Dohrmann declared that the commission was convinced that a higher minimum wage for women workers was required. He said the only question to be considered was the additional amount necessary. Given the costs of basic living, if a woman only makes the current minimum wage, she cannot make both ends meet, and large numbers of women continue in debt.

  Married women who work for the pleasure of the thing, according to a number of people present, are responsible for the low wages. One female speaker said, “There is not a surplus of women workers, but a surplus of married women working for the fun of it.”

  Other members of the Commission included Alexander Goldstein, a long-standing member of the Clothing Makers’ Industrial Association, who spoke passionately in favor of raising the minimum wage for women, and Samuel Smith of San Francisco, who remarked that it was unlikely that women were working for pin money in the canning and fruit packing industries either.

  Further hearings are to be held later this week.

  * * * *

  So, my Gold is actually Alexander Goldstein, and he spoke passionately indeed. As a reporter covering the event I could not speak to him privately at the meeting, but we made arrangements to meet afterwards for dinner. I have a lovely little townhouse near downtown Sacramento, with a view of the river. He visited me there the following evening.

  At first we talked about El Verano and the events of the summer. He told me that the lieutenant governor had indeed seen to it that any record of charges against him had been expunged. “It is so funny,” he said. “My name is so hard for Americans because you have all the names of ages: Young, Younger, Older.”

  “Stone, Strone, Toppings.”

  “All your different names. Like Lombard, Miss Kitty’s last name.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not her real name, either. Yours isn’t Gold, mine isn’t Violet Strone, and hers isn’t Kate Lombard. We all were living in disguise.”

  Gold kissed me, as sweet and tender a kiss as I have had in my entire life. “I would marry you, dolly. Our religions are different, but we could marry, you know.”

  “Are you proposing, or saying you would if you could?”

  “I believe I am proposing, but with you I am not certain.”

  “Well, then it’s hardly a proposal, is it? I suppose you can’t marry a former prostitute.”

  “You were doing research.”

  “But as you said, a small part of your disguise becomes a part of you.”

  “I like the part of your disguise that became you.”

  I smiled and pulled the sheets up over us. “We’ll see. Let’s see where this takes us for a bit.”

  I am not sure I want to be married to anyone, but if I did, Gold could be someone I might consider. That’s about as ambiguous as it gets.

  * * * *

  September 20, 1920

  Sacramento, CA

  I covered Maud Younger’s speech in Sacramento today as she embarked on the cross-country trip for women’s suffrage. She is traveling with two Swedish women who speak very little English. They are not the ideal companions for the journey, but one of them owns the car, so it can’t be helped. Just as Miss Younger predicted, Mrs. Joliffe excused herself from the trip immediately after the grand speech and the balloons and streamers and bands had left.

  She immediately asked me, as I had identified myself to her, if I could possibly change my life around and go with them. I thought it over, but they left this morning before I could give her my response.

  I am a journalist now, and I have an obligation to the paper. I have telegraphed Mr. Older asking for permission to follow the journey of the car by train, meeting their stops and reporting on the speeches. Poor Miss Younger will have to give all the speeches, since Mrs. Joliffe is not going along. I hope that he says I can.

  I did give Miss Younger a copy of The Harlot’s Pen, revised, tightened, but with some of the racier parts put back in. She promised to read it and let me know if it had publishable novel potential.

  Caleb visited me several times last week, as his work is north of Sacramento this month. We had a rollicking good time, though we had little to talk about. I have become, I’m afraid, more than just a little part of my former disguise.

  * * * *

  October 13, 1920

  Special to the Examiner

  By Violet Stone

  Betty Fisher was tried for the murder of Rose Fontainebleau this week. A fancy name for a prostitute, but then, Rose was from the Bayou, and French names were common there. Miss Fisher was known in her trade as Sharon, a common enough moniker for a common enough girl. The idea of a whore killing another whore brought out the prurient trial-mongers, and the courtroom up in Sonoma was packed.

  It was a warm week, as Indian summer dragged on, and the harvests were more or less done, leaving the populace with time on its hands and craving entertainment. Miss Fisher sat with her back to the crowd, but when she turned to look over the assemblage, the venom in her eyes was probably well-deserved. For a girl who had given comfort to well over half the town, the town’s lack of reciprocal support likely stung.

&nbs
p; She sat next to a young man who was acting as her lawyer. Her former employer, Mrs. Kate Lombard, paid for the attorney, and he did a good job. Mrs. Lombard was not in the crowd, and no one called her as a witness.

  The prosecutor called the sheriff as his main witness and called the pharmacist, known locally as Doc Simmons, too. The sheriff kept his testimony crisp. “I was called to the scene by Moses, Mrs. Lombard’s man. He said there was some trouble out at El Verano, and when I came into the victim’s room, she was dead.”

  “Were there any signs of foul play?”

  “Nothing I could see. She had an opium habit, the victim did, and it looked like she’d fallen under a spell and hit her head.”

  “Why did you arrest Miss Fisher if there was no sign of foul play?”

  “Because she admitted to me that she’d given Miss Fontainebleau a dose of headache powder, and that, combined with opium, probably made her pass out. Could have even killed her.”

  The defense lawyer objected, and the judge, a crusty, white-haired gentleman who peered over his spectacles in the most nearsighted way, but turned out to be completely adept at his judging, sustained the objection. The jurors wiped the sweat from their foreheads as the judge instructed them to ignore the part of the answer where the sheriff speculated about the headache powder having a part in killing Rose.

  Doc Simmons took care of that issue fairly quickly, undoing the benefits of the judge’s instruction. “The powder is completely safe when used as instructed. It’s lethal in excess. And combined with opium, well, it’s not survivable.”

  “Did you tell Miss Fisher that when you sold her the powder?”

  “No, sir, but any damn fool would know that.”

  Another objection, also sustained, and the jurors sweated in the heat.

  Miss Fisher’s lawyer took the big risk and called her as his witness. She was shaking visibly on the stand, and her eyes were wide with nerves as she told us her story.

  “I was born out in the valley, but when I was three, my dad moved us to the city. He had worked building the railroad, and he was all broken down, but he had heard a man could get work in San Francisco, so he packed me and my brothers and my little sister, the one my ma died giving birth to, and took us to town.

  “He took to drinking after my ma died, and the drink broke him worse than the railroad and Ma’s death. When I was nine, my little sister, Opal, took a cold and died, too. The boys were older, but I was coming along, and I was my pa’s only comfort. It only hurt when he was drunk.

  “One day, I was about eleven, my brother came home real late and caught my dad in the act. He took the butt end of a rifle to him, and then, even though I was screaming and crying, he took his turn with me. I’d only known an old man, I didn’t know a young one could be so rough, go so many times. When he was finished, it was daylight. He took my clothes, stuffed them in a bag, and told me to get out.

  “There wasn’t much I could do, but there was one thing I was sure of, and I started working out on the wharf. I could do ten men in a night. Finally I had enough to pay for a crib, a little room with a bed, up in one of the big houses. They kept you naked from one in the afternoon ‘till dawn and just sent the men in one after another, but you were safe, and there was food to eat. I stayed for a few years.”

  The prosecutor broke the mesmerized spell with an objection. “I see no relevance to this recitation of prurience.”

  The judge, obviously entranced, overruled him. “Go on,” he rasped.

  “When they shut down the houses a couple of years ago, I had nowhere to turn. I worked the streets, I slept in a carriage house behind one of the grand homes, but I was cold at night, and hungry. Miss Kitty rescued me. She’s the only mother I ever knew. And Rose,” Miss Fisher broke down, “she was like a sister, like Opal. I loved her.”

  “Did you give her the headache powder?” her lawyer asked gently.

  “I did give Rose the powder,” she said in a shaky voice. “She suffered from headaches. But I didn’t dose her. I gave her the bag and then went about my duties.” A titter arose from the crowd at the mention of her duties, as the audience relieved the stress of listening to her bitter tale. The judge’s gavel came down sharply.

  “So you had gentlemen to attend to and left the bag with Miss Fontainebleau?” More suppressed giggles, but Miss Fisher nodded.

  “We had guests. I couldn’t linger.”

  The prosecutor was having none of it. “Were you jealous of Miss Fontainebleau? Did you resent her beauty or her position with the house?”

  The defendant fielded that one easily. “I earned as much as Rose, and sometimes more. She was beautiful and sweet, but she was off, you understand. And plenty of men were more partial to me than any other girl.” She had pride in her work, the prosecutor had to give her that.

  “Well, then, did you hate the new girl? Was she competition for you?”

  Sharon laughed, and the prosecutor had the sense not to demand an answer.

  “How did the bag end up in the new prostitute’s bureau?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t.” The jurors collectively held their breath. “Violet had cramps that day, so maybe she took it from Rose. I don’t know.” The young prosecutor blushed from the mention of cramps.

  The jury deliberated for more than a day, and finally returned a verdict of manslaughter. The judge was merciful. Ten years of hard labor, and she would not have to swing by her beautiful neck. The entire town heard her scream reverberating through the courtroom and ringing in their ears for hours after.

  * * * *

  That was possibly the hardest news article I had ever written. I had hidden behind the tallest man in the press gallery I could find, but the venom in Sharon’s eyes had truly been for me.

  December 1, 1920

  San Francisco, CA

  Well, today is my wedding day. Gold and I have decided to make it official. We will be married at City Hall at three, and there will be dinner and dancing the Mark Hopkins into the night. Francis and Jacqueline are giving me the wedding.

  “So much better than Sam Toppings,” Leticia telegraphed when I announced my upcoming wedding. I can’t call it an engagement, as it was only two weeks ago that we decided. Leticia and her hubby will try to attend, but they’re set to leave on a tour of Paris and London the next day. Who would have thought old Mister Stodgy had it in him?

  “You never fail to do something radical, Violetta,” Jacqueline said. “Living in sin with Sam, getting arrested by the federal agents, writing a book, getting a job as a newspaper woman, and now, marrying a Jew. I’m afraid of what you’ll think up next!”

  And Jacqueline only knows the half of it. The baby is due in seven months. If it’s a girl, we will name her Kate. If it’s a boy, though, it will be James, because it sounds like Chaim. That, Gold tells me, is life.

  Historical Postscript

  In 1926, as soon as C.C. Young was elected governor, his first act was to pardon Mrs. Anita Whitney. The Industrial Welfare Commission did raise the minimum wage, although not as high as the workers wanted. Throughout the rest of that tumultuous decade, strife between the men’s unions and the women workers kept either side from holding on to the bargaining benefits. Union-busting was rampant, and ultimately all the gains were lost as the nation spiraled into the great depression in 1929.

  About the Author

  Claudia H Long writes fiction when she isn't mediating messy legal disputes. She has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and as a change, she recently tried to take up belly dancing. Luckily, she is a better mediator than she is a dancer, by far, but her real love is writing fiction. She has two grown children, and lives in Northern California with her husband and far too many animals.

 

 

 
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