Chapter 8
A week had passed since the feature went to press, yet the letters and calls continued to roll in. Readers wanted to know about those poor, sweet children. As could be expected, there were those outraged by a mother’s willingness to peddle her own flesh and blood, but the vast majority expressed sympathy for the family.
For proof, Lily needed only to glance at Ellis’s desk. Among the latest donations were teddy bears, clothing, a ragged stuffed monkey, jarred preserves, pickled vegetables, and a rainbow quilt. Word had it a few letters even offered jobs and a small amount of cash. The whole lot, Lily had overheard, would be personally delivered by Ellis, citing the family’s desire for privacy.
Such a preference wasn’t a surprise, given the final photograph that went to press. A mishap with the original had apparently required him to provide images from a second roll of film. The chief had been dictating a memo to Lily that day, when Mr. Baylor interrupted with a folder of alternatives. Through the window of the chief’s door, she had glimpsed Ellis watching the exchange from afar, looking too fidgety to sit. Once more, just as in the park, she’d had the urge to offer assurance. But who knew what her fickle boss would decide?
After a quick sift through the photos, the chief had latched on to the last in the stack: one with the mother on the porch, her hand splayed and face half turned away, with her children clinging to each other in the wake of that unsettling sign.
A display of hardships had gained a potent layer of shame.
Despite the photo’s similar effect on Lily, she had managed to send Ellis a nod, relaying the chief’s approval. He had brightened with a smile so wide and genuine that she found herself smiling back. Then the sound of her name in the chief’s gruff voice had tugged her gaze from Ellis’s, her mind back to her shorthand, and she was glad for it. She didn’t need any more distractions in her life.
Never was that truer than today. In light of her imminent proposal, her show of diligence would be key. At the coffee station in the gradually filling city room, she was preparing the chief’s cup in plenty of time for his morning arrival. But as she mentally rehearsed her speech, her hand jolted. A hot splash. She had overfilled the ceramic mug, the chief’s favorite, almost dropping it onto the hard linoleum.
Focus, Lily.
She hurried to the lavatory to snatch a hand towel and went to work mopping up the puddle. She was still kneeling when greetings arose, young male reporters sounding anxious to impress.
The chief was here.
Twelve minutes early.
Lily groaned. She hadn’t yet finished her routine of ensuring his mess of a desk was tidied, his coffee set out to cool—he preferred it black and tepid—and his ashtray emptied and placed at the ready.
“Miss Palmer!” he bellowed while entering his office, per his norm.
“Yes, sir. Be there in a jiff!” She scrambled across the room to reach her desk. This time, in lieu of a pencil and steno pad, she pulled out her precious green folder.
Once she’d confirmed Clayton’s suspicions—Mr. Schiller was indeed retiring, though he had yet to make a formal announcement—she had spent every evening since, including bus rides to and from Delaware over the weekend, preparing. She had reviewed, retyped, and edited several of her past articles and had even composed new samples. While surely and regrettably not perfect, they were as ready as they would ever be.
“Miss Palmer!” The chief’s impatience was climbing.
With a fortifying breath, she proceeded into his office. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, warming the room, but still she closed the door.
The chief’s hat was balanced atop his suit jacket, which he had tossed over the visitor’s chair. It was her duty to transfer the items to the coat stand in the corner. Instead, she stood and waited before his desk. The one she had neglected to tidy.
“Good morning, Chief.”
Planted in his chair, he peered over the rims of his spectacles, looking more confused than perturbed. “Where’s my coffee?”
The coffee. Oh murder. She had forgotten.
Yet she pressed on.
“Yes, before I get to that”—as if this had been her strategy all along, as if his cup of joe would be produced only after her demands were heard—“I was hoping we could speak privately. Before the business of the day picks up.”
He began a search through documents on his desk but mumbled his agreement.
This was her moment.
“Sir, in light of Mr. Schiller’s decision to retire, I’d like to submit an idea. After all, I presume you’re going to need a new columnist by the end of next month.”
“If you got someone in mind, jot his name down. Worry about the coffee for now.” He wagged a hand toward the door as though she required directional assistance—to a destination she could find backward in the pitch-black of night.
Behind her, a rise of muffled voices indicated the city room was coming to life. Soon, the daily whirlwind would ensue and any chance of a pointed discussion would fall away.
The chief looked up, his order ignored.
Lily applied her most persuasive smile. “I’m sorry to pester, Chief, but if you could take a minute to peek at a few writing samples, I’d be terribly grateful.”
She wasn’t the type to ask for much, and the chief knew this. She saw it in his eyes before he sighed. “Fine,” he said and accepted the folder.
As he leafed through the pages, Lily had to resist fiddling with her locket. She recalled Ellis and his fidgeting, and wished he were there to reciprocate with a look of reassurance.
Then the chief bobbed his head. It was his usual sign of a satisfying read, but not a guarantee.
“Who wrote these?” He was still skimming.
A sudden lump formed in her throat. Submitting under a pen name might have been an option if the chief wasn’t a stickler for facts. In his world, there were no near truths. She forced down a swallow. “I did.”
He stopped reading. Slowly, he sat back in his chair. His thick brows were furrowed. “So, you’re not happy with your job.”
“Oh! Gosh, no, Chief. I mean, it’s just fine.” And it was, for the short term. “I thought I could write a column on the side, in addition to my normal duties.” All of which she maintained without issue. If he didn’t count today. She scrambled to remember her speech. “As you might recall, I was the editor of my high school bulletin. And several letters to editors I’ve written have appeared in various papers over the years.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The mere act of deliberation prodded her to go on.
“I already have a list of possibilities, mind you. Most would offer a firsthand view of different walks of life. I’d even be willing to go undercover, to show what it’s like to be a vaudevillian or a maid at a plush hotel. If you’re interested, I could also—”
The chief flashed his palm. “Okay, I got it.”
She nodded, fearing she had said too much, hoping she had said enough. “I can do this, Chief. I know I can.”
He drew an audible breath, then let it out. “I’ve got no doubt.” The subtle lightness in his tone caused her to smile. But when he replaced his spectacles and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, she braced herself. “Even so. Our readers expect a certain kind of column, Miss Palmer. They want someone who writes about life like…well, Ed Schiller.”
The instant he finished, she forged ahead, prepared for this argument. “I know what you’re saying, sir. However, this could actually help bridge the gap between our male and female readers in a variety of ways.”
“How ’bout recipes?”
The peculiar question stalled her. “Pardon me?”
“Your folks over in Delaware. They own a deli, don’t they? You must have some nice recipes you could share for the Sunday editions.”
And then she unde
rstood. He was referring to the women’s Food section. Right beside columns about fashion faux pas and party etiquette and how to become the perfect homemaker. They were the sorts of topics that a young Nellie Bly had been limited to cover at the Pittsburgh Dispatch before she left for better opportunities, better pay.
Goals aside, a nickel or dime a recipe wasn’t worth the cost of Lily’s dignity. At least not today.
The door rattled open and Clayton blew in. “Chief! Got the scoop on Duffy.”
Tension in the room must have hung like a web because Clayton halted midstep and pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Or…I can come back.”
“Nah, nah. We’re done,” the chief said, to which Lily pinned on a tight smile of compliance. “You find out more?” he asked.
Clayton nodded, reminded of his purpose. “Murdered in his hotel room. At the Ambassador.”
“Any suspects?”
The men scarcely took note of Lily stepping between them to retrieve her folder.
“Cops are questioning Hoff. Some of his henchmen too. But looks more like associates in the Irish Mob turned on him. Police are expecting thousands to show for the funeral. If you’re on board, I could be off to Atlantic City in an hour.”
Clayton emitted such enthusiasm that one would think Orville Wright had just revealed an aircraft that could soar to the moon and back.
Lily would leave them to their celebration.
She closed the door with more force than was prudent. Though who would notice? All of the city room was abuzz with the latest news. Philadelphia’s very own Mickey Duffy, a bootlegger and numbers runner dubbed “Prohibition’s Mr. Big,” had officially been slain the night before. No wonder the chief had come in early.
In fact, his rejection of her pitch might largely have been a matter of poor timing. Perhaps she could revisit the proposal on a better day.
Oh, whom was she fooling? Approach him again, and she would receive the same answer. Push harder, and she would be lucky to maintain her current job.
Across the room, Ellis was busy speaking to Mr. Baylor in animated fashion, surely about another feature in the works. While the achievement of his first one had emboldened her with inspiration, it now caused her a sharp twist of envy.
Just then, Ellis glanced in her direction. Lily summoned her standard composure and continued on her way. After all, she had important tasks to see to. Like bringing warm coffee to her boss.
Chapter 9
No one could have predicted how the article would spread. It was like a brush fire leaping from one paper to the next. First to Jersey, then Maryland, Rhode Island, and Illinois. Down to Texas, as far west as Wyoming. The dailies that had rerun Ellis’s feature currently totaled nine. Ten if he included the original in the Examiner.
It was darkly intriguing, in a way. The sight of strangers in dire straits had become so commonplace that they were as good as invisible to most. But shine a spotlight on members of a single family—a pair of cute kids huddled together, a desperate mother shielding her face—and they became human. Folks who deserved compassion.
To be fair, Ellis had never intended to submit the picture of Geraldine. He hadn’t realized Mr. Baylor had presented it to the chief until learning it was approved. Even now, well into October, the portrayal of the family still left Ellis unsettled.
In truth, everything about that photo did. The more compliments and success it garnered, the more deceptive he felt. So much had happened without planning and in such a short span. It was just two months ago when he’d managed to sell his big pitch to the chief.
Sometimes he wondered what else he’d sold on that Monday. His principles? His integrity?
At least readers’ responses helped combat the guilt that gnawed at him. Kind letters continued to stream in, along with donations. Already he’d made three trips to the Dillards’, leaving boxes of gifts on their porch late at night. He’d become a reverse thief, avoiding the awkwardness of directly handing them off, of having to explain how greatly the article’s reach had widened. While the attention would thrill Ruby—maybe her brother too—clearly their mother would feel otherwise.
In any case, all Ellis could do was move forward. So far, it was working out reasonably well, both in pay and opportunity. For his last two pieces, he’d featured Siamese twins born in Philly who had defied medical odds, then a local actor once known from silent films, now frail and living in a shantytown dubbed Hooverville.
Such displays of a common humanity struck a note with readers. But it was Ellis’s upcoming feature that made him particularly proud. The idea of highlighting coal miners in Pittston had come to him a week ago. As he rode a streetcar, the sight of a shoe shiner, pint-size and cheeks smeared with polish, jogged a memory.
Ellis had been about the same age, seven or eight, when he visited a mine near his childhood hometown of Hazelton. It marked one of the rare occasions when his father was stuck dragging him to work. As a machinery supervisor for the Huss Coal Company, his father was conferring with a drill operator when Ellis stumbled upon a pack of young boys eating lunch out of pails. From cap to boots, the kids were so dusted from coal that the whites of their eyes almost glowed.
His father’s deep voice had shot from behind. Gruff as a roar, it had made Ellis literally jump. I told you, stay in the truck. The man was normally so stoic; it was the first time Ellis became truly aware of his father’s solid, towering form.
Together they’d marched back to the truck, where his father took hold of the steering wheel. His hands shook with such anger that a belt whupping at home seemed a surety, punishment for wandering off. But the longer they drove, the calmer his father became. Finally, he said to Ellis: Those mines are no place to fool around. He looked as if he’d say more. Instead, he fell into the usual silence that accompanied their drives.
Ellis had known well enough to stay quiet, but his curious nature won out. Pop, who were those kids? His father’s gaze had remained on the road, his answer grim and barely audible. Breaker boys, he’d said, a clear end to the conversation.
In time, Ellis learned more about the children, as young as six, used for sorting coal. Ten hours a day they’d labor over chutes and conveyor belts in a breaker, enduring cuts from slate and burns from acid. Losing fingers and limbs in the gears. Developing asthma and black lung. Some were even smothered by the coal itself.
Today, breaker boys were a thing of the past. Now there were machines that could do the job, but also laws regulating child labor. Laws that would never have been written, let alone enforced, without strong public support. How did that largely come about? Journalists.
The revelation had hit Ellis soon after that day at the mine. He was sipping a malt at the drugstore counter as his mother shopped for goods. A female customer was speaking to the owner, outraged over an article involving another breaker boy being maimed. She commended the “brave newsmen” for reporting such things—atrocities, she said—that the big coal companies wished would pass quiet as a whisper.
Typical of an only child, Ellis was always an avid reader. But from that day on, newspapers became his read of choice. When his mother attempted to sway him to the classics, worrying that local accounts of murders and corruption were inappropriate for a child, he took to sneaking articles under the covers after bedtime.
One day he, too, would become a brave newsman, he’d vowed. He would do the exact opposite of the lowly muckrakers that his father griped about—“vultures,” he called them. In Jim Reed’s world, a man of real value created something tangible and useful to society, practical items that could last. And that didn’t include scandals and gossip in daily papers that amounted to “ink-stained kindling,” worth a penny and discarded the next day. No, Ellis would do more than that. His stories would make folks sit up and listen. Impart knowledge that actually made a difference.
Nobody believed he’d see it through, however, this big drea
m of his. Except for his mother. In Allentown—where his family settled years ago, after his father was hired by Bethlehem Steel—you got your diploma, then you worked at a factory, producing cars or trucks, pounding metal for the navy. And forget about college. Those money-grubbing institutions were meant for pampered Rockefeller types who’d never known a real day’s work. Or so it was said.
For a while, Ellis followed the crowd. He even dated on occasion until realizing it wasn’t fair to the girls, whose singular goal was to land a husband and start a family. He couldn’t risk being tied down for fear he’d never leave. Every week for more than a year, he just slung on his boots and gloves and ground away at a battery plant. But he did so merely to save up for his move to Philly and to buy engine parts for his junkyard find. To chase down the biggest stories, a reporter needed to get around.
His mother understood this, even when he quit his solid job at the plant to file newspapers for lower pay, only then to write drivel for the women’s pages. He never had to explain to her how each step led closer to his goal.
His father, on the other hand, failed to share their outlook and had no qualms about saying so—which would make supper at their home tonight all the more gratifying.
Although Ellis had sent his mother clippings of his first three features, earning her praise over the phone, this would be the first time he’d see his parents since the pieces went to press. At long last, his father would have to admit that Ellis’s career choices weren’t foolish after all. He would see that his son’s work held meaning, if at no other time than when Ellis shared his forthcoming feature about the mine.
It was just a matter of choosing the right moment.
• • •
“More pot roast, sweetheart?” his mother asked, seated to Ellis’s right at the dinner table. Her chair was always the closest to the kitchen.
“I’ve had plenty. Thanks, Ma.”
“How about some bread?” She reached for the crescents, heaped in a milk-glass bowl she’d owned since he was born. It was charmingly simple, yet purposeful and unchanging. Same as everything about his parents’ two-story bungalow home. “Don’t you dare say you’re full,” she warned, “or I’ll have to point out again how thin you’re getting.”
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