“A fly-around?”
“A plane—so we can get to multiple events.” I flinched. I hate to fly.
“Everybody wants her,” Roger continued, apparently oblivious to my reaction. “She’s climbed seven points in the past two weeks. Which is phenomenal, given that she’s running against an incumbent.”
Her opponent, a downstate Democrat just finishing his first term, was likable but unremarkable. No hanging chads in this election. We reached the conference table.
“Coffee?”
I shook my head while he poured himself a cup, his eyes on the “pit bulls.” Roger was definitely B-ship material, I decided. The B-ship, according to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, was one of three arks sent out to colonize a new planet when a giant mutant star-goat threatened to destroy the Golgafrinchams. The A-ship contained the planet’s leaders, inventors, and scientists. The C-ship was filled with workerbees. But the B-ship, which was launched first to prepare the way for the others, included hairdressers, middle managers, and marketing types. Five years after the launch, no one from the other ships seemed to have made contact with the B-ship.
Roger gestured to a manila folder on the conference table. “I took the liberty of pulling together some background for you: Marian’s bio, her legislative record, a few other things.”
We sat down, and I opened the file.
“There’s an article from the Trib,” he said. “It’s a good interview.”
I riffled through the papers and pulled it out.
“It’s going to be a series. Kind of a campaign journal.”
“Really?” I looked at the reporter’s byline. Stephen Lamont. The name wasn’t familiar.
“We couldn’t pay for this kind of publicity.” Roger’s eyes gleamed. “Lamont is turning out to be quite a friend. You’ll run into him.”
I skimmed the article. A thumbnail sketch of Marian’s career, it covered her two terms in the Illinois Senate, where, as chairman of the Agribusiness Subcommittee, she pushed through a major ethanol bill. It also mentioned her job as deputy administrator of DCCA, the state’s commerce department, prior to her election. Before that, she was CEO of Iverson Steel.
“She ran Iverson’s?”
“For ten years. Until it was sold.”
“When was that?”
“The family sold it off in the Seventies, around the time imports started to strangle the industry,” Roger said.
“I had no idea,” I murmured. “She was so young.”
Roger shrugged. “She doesn’t talk about it much.” He lowered his voice. “A rift in the family.”
Rift or no rift, my admiration for her deepened. To be a young female CEO back then was rare enough. To be a female CEO during hard times for the steel industry was extraordinary. It must have shaped her character in ways I could only guess.
“Looks like there’s a gap of several years here before she went into public service. What did she do?”
“Took a few years off. Traveled. Saw the world. When she decided to enter public service, the governor offered her a job in Springfield right away.”
Easy for her. I closed the file. “So, Roger, what are your thoughts about the video?”
Roger lifted a Palm Pilot from his pocket and turned it on. “Marian was talking about the kind of thing they did for Clinton. The Man from Hope shtick. It worked well for him.” Not wanting to insult his taste, I said carefully, “Do you really think we need to copy him?”
“Why not? He copied us for years.”
I was about to respond when someone shoved a piece of paper in front of him. I looked up. The Hispanic woman stood over him. “Excuse me, Roger,” she said, “but I need a signature on this.”
He looked up. “What is it?”
“It’s the posters we ordered. I went ahead and got five thousand. We can distribute them in the precincts.” The woman was striking with dark, soulful eyes and long black hair that grazed her shoulders.
“Ellie. Meet Dory Sanchez,” Roger said. The woman straightened up. She was dressed in a tailored suit that made my outfit look shabby.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Did you just join the staff?”
“Not exactly. I’m producing a videotape for the campaign.”
“I see.” She eyed me thoughtfully before turning back to Roger. A look passed between them, and he signed the paper. As she returned to her desk, Roger followed her with his eyes. “Where were we?” His hand started to twitch, and he started making little circles with his thumb and forefinger.
Captain Queeg was back.
“The Man from Hope.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “How about something like that?”
“Frankly, Marian doesn’t strike me as that kind of person.”
“How does she strike you?”
I straightened my shoulders. “Intelligent. Straightforward. Confident. Determined, although she doesn’t push herself on you.”
“Go on.” Tapping a metallic pen on the tiny monitor of his Palm, he made notes. “What about her politics?”
“It’s interesting,” I said. “She’s almost a blend. I mean she’s definitely a Republican, but she doesn’t come off as rigid. She’s traditional but modern. Almost liberal on some issues. It’s almost as if there’s something for everyone.”
“Then it’s working.” Roger grinned.
“What’s working?”
“We’re targeting a broad base of support. You’re confirming that our message is getting through. If we can keep up the momentum, the sky’s the limit.”
“Including the urban vote?”
Roger yanked his thumb toward the pit bulls, where Dory and an African-American man were in deep conversation. “I’m not writing anything off. Like I said, the sky’s the limit.” He suggested that I come up with a proposal—a “concept”—by the following week. We agreed to shoot during June and July and post during August. We would need some stock footage as well. I should plan on shooting over July Fourth weekend, he said, and made a note to get us aboard the plane. I ignored the uneasy twinge.
When it came to the budget, I was surprised at his lack of concern. “It takes what it takes,” he said. “We want to do it right. How much do you need up front?”
I swallowed. “Er, forty percent would be good.”
“No problem. We’ll cut you a check.” He got up from the table, a signal that our meeting was over. “Send me an invoice. I’m glad you’re on board, Ellie.”
I stood up, and we shook hands again. As I pushed through the door, Dory Sanchez stared after me.
Chapter Twenty
Paul Iverson claimed to be from modest origins. Raised in the coal-mining region of Pennsylvania, he moved to the Midwest as a young man and married Frances Chandler, daughter of William and Marie Chandler. William Chandler owned a pharmaceutical company and was friendly with the Fords. Iverson and Frances had two children, a boy and a girl. I printed out the article and made a note. I’d thought Marian was an only child.
Iverson was ambitious. And smart. While Sam Insull was stringing up electric lines on the North Shore and the Armours ran the stockyards, Iverson, with the help of his father-in-law, bought a moribund smelting operation. Over the next few years, according to the article, he built it into a thriving specialty processing plant and repaid his father-inlaw’s loan with interest. At its zenith, Iverson Steel developed a reputation for agricultural applications and employed over three thousand workers. That surged to four thousand during the war when they retooled to produce military parts.
Iverson Steel was also the first Chicago mill to let in the union, with the proviso that they stay out of management issues. Despite regular disputes over what constituted “management issues,” Iverson’s gamble paid off. In 1938, a strike of seventy-eight thousand Chicago steelworkers erupted into riots, killing ten people at Republic. But Iverson’s, just down the road, was untouched, and Iverson himself ended up mediating between the mill owners and the workers.
<
br /> Another article described Iverson’s philanthropic activities. During the war, Iverson apparently contributed large sums of money to bring Jews out of Nazi Europe. Some of the money went to the Zionist organization to help Jews emigrate to Palestine. The rest went to help smooth immigration into the States, not an easy task with Cordell Hull at the State Department. Iverson’s efforts won the respect of the rank and file, many of whom were immigrants from Nazi-occupied countries or had family there, and the article included a picture of Iverson with William Green, head of the AFL, hailing Iverson as “a hero, one of the few to stick out his neck when others were burying their heads in the sand.”
I studied the picture I’d downloaded. Why would a tycoon from Lake Forest, whose in-laws were close to Henry Ford, stick out his neck for Jews? Iverson looked like a handsome man, somewhere in his forties, but the photograph was so degraded and blurred it was hard to tell. Tall, thin, elegantly dressed, he had dark eyes and a thick shock of what looked like white hair.
Reading on, I discovered that Iverson’s place in history was guaranteed not because of his philanthropy or entrepreneurial success. When American soldiers went off to fight World War Two, thousands of women moved into factories and plants to take their places. The government, in fact, launched a huge propaganda campaign designed to push women into the workplace. “Rosie the Riveter” featured posters, songs, and photos of young women on the factory floor, happily riveting bolts onto tanks, airplanes, and other heavy equipment.
Although most of them quit after the war, it was a significant milestone for women’s rights. Iverson Steel was thought to have hired more women more quickly than any other steel mill in the country. One historian speculated that the concept for Rosie the Riveter might well have originated on Iverson’s shop floor. Was that how Lisle Gottlieb got her job? I wondered.
Unfortunately, Iverson didn’t live long enough to enjoy his place in history. He died at the end of the war from a sudden heart attack.
The phone rang just as I finished the article.
“Ellie, this is Dory Sanchez?” Her voice rose on the word “Sanchez,” turning her statement into a question. Women in the workplace do that, I’ve noticed. It’s as if they’re still seeking permission to be in the club, and they’re not brave enough to make an authoritative declaration. Men don’t bother.
“Hi Dory.” My voice brimmed with authority.
“I hate to bother you, but Roger wanted me to find out whether you might want office space down here while you’re working on the video.”
“Office space?”
“We have a couple of offices available—at least until Labor Day. He wanted you to know you’re welcome to use one of them.”
“That’s kind of him. And you.” I hesitated. “But I don’t think I’ll need it.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“I’ll be on location quite a bit, and then in the editing room. And…well…you know…” I bit the inside of my lip. “I’ll tell you what,” she said cheerily. “We’ll leave it open.
I’ll put a phone in one of them. In case you change your mind. By the way, would you mind giving me your cell number? For emergencies.”
I frowned. “I—I guess not. It’s 847-904-5566.”
“And your E-mail?”
I told her.
“Thanks. You know, I hope we’ll be able to talk at some point. I’d love to hear more about your work.”
“Sure,” I replied. “I’ll be around.”
“Great. I’ll give this number to Roger.”
After lunch I investigated the Rosie the Riveter story. An hour of calls to various trade associations and libraries unearthed the name of Linda Jorgenson, considered by many to be the unofficial historian of the Chicago steel mills. Her family’s been in the business for several generations, and she’s collected all sorts of documents and records.
When I got her on the phone, I asked if she knew anything about the Rosie the Riveter campaign.
“Oh, yes. That was quite a time for the steel industry.”
“I’ve been doing some research, and one of the articles said that the campaign might have originated at the Iverson steel mill. Would you know anything about that?”
“Are you kidding? I’m surprised nobody told you. Movietone News came out from Hollywood to do a story about the women at Iverson’s. It helped launch the Rosie campaign.”
“Really. When was that?”
“Let me think. My father saw it. It would have been early forty-two, I think.”
I straightened up like a pointer who’s picked up a scent.
“Movietone News.” I made a note. “That’s owned by Fox.”
“If you say so.”
“I wonder if they have a copy of it.” Cradling the phone on my ear, I surfed over to Fox Movietone News and jotted down their number. I’d call them later.
“You know, I have some other things from Iverson’s you might want to take a look at.” She explained that when Iverson’s was sold, the new owners didn’t feel it was necessary to keep all the old records and handed them over to Linda. She had boxes of files stored in a warehouse.
I said I’d keep them in mind. “I’ve gotta ask you. How did you get into all of this?”
“My family owns a small steelyard on the East Side. It used to be part of Republic.”
“Republic was one of the big ones.”
“It was huge. My grandfather, my father, and my uncles worked there. But it got hit hard in the Sixties along with the others. My cousins and I pooled all our money and bought part of it for a song. We turned it into a wire and cable operation.”
“When was this?”
“Late Seventies,” she said. “We had to downsize, retrofit, streamline. But it has a happy ending. We’re finally turning a profit.”
Marxists be warned. The means of production had passed from the owners to the workers. Capitalism works in mysterious ways. “That’s a great story.” I made a note. After the campaign video, who knew?
“You know, it was really a shame the way everything ended up,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“With Mr. Iverson,” she said. “No one ever understood why he did it.”
“Did what?”
She hesitated. “Why he killed himself, of course.”
Silence swirled around me. “Paul Iverson committed suicide?”
“Yes.” She coughed. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“I thought he died from a heart attack.”
“That was the public version. I guess the family didn’t want it to get out. But everybody knew.”
My father called that night to remind me that tomorrow was Shavuos, and I was expected to say Yiskor for my mother. Yiskor, an extra service tacked onto the liturgy to memorialize those who have passed on, comes four times a year, always in conjunction with another holiday. That’s one of the problems with being Jewish. There are so many holidays during the year that it’s entirely possible to spend all your time preparing to observe them, observing them, then recovering from observing them. Some Jews do little else. I hang on to a few traditions. I won’t bring ham in the house, I don’t celebrate Christmas, and I won’t eat bread during Passover. I call it Kosher Lite.
Fouad’s pickup was in the driveway when I got back. He was pulling the lawn mower from the bed of the truck. He eyed my skirt, long-sleeved blouse and good shoes. “You are busy?”
I shook my head. “I was at synagogue. It’s Shavuos.”
“Would you like me to come back another time? “Not at all. Just give me a minute.”
“You would have been proud of me, Fouad,” I said after changing into cutoffs and a T-shirt. “I was up in Lake Forest the other night, and I was able to tell the difference between shade and sun plants.”
He smiled at me.
“There had to be at least an acre of impatiens and hostas in front of the house I was at.”
“Really.” He pushed the mower over toward th
e grass. “It’s the old Iverson estate. On the lake. I’m producing a campaign video for Marian Iverson. She’s running for the
Senate.”
“Ahh.” He walked back to his pickup and retrieved a thick pair of canvas gloves. “And what did you learn today? In synagogue?” he asked, pulling the gloves over his hands, evidently unimpressed with my new client.
“Learn? I didn’t learn anything.”
“That’s hard to believe. Yours is a heritage of learning. Every time you observe you give yourself the opportunity to learn.” He sounded a lot like the rabbi I just heard, imploring people like me to come to shul more often to reacquaint themselves with the joys of Judaism.
I hooked my hands over the belt loops of my cutoffs. “I don’t know if I’d call it learning, but when I was a little girl I’d go to services with my parents. Whenever Yiskor came, the kids were shooed out of the sanctuary. You weren’t allowed to stay unless one of your parents was dead. It was all very grown-up and secretive, and I remember wanting to spy. Find out what the mystery was.” I looked down. “Now I’m supposed to be there, and I don’t want to be.”
“Because of your mother.”
My throat was suddenly tight.
“Everyone is going to taste death,” he said. “The Koran says death is part of the cycle of life. We all have our turn. Your Yiskors, perhaps in some way, they are preparing you for that time. Teaching you how to accept death. Your loved ones, as well as your own.”
I dumped my hands in my pockets.
“There can be great solace with those of your own faith.” He bent over the lawnmower. “Now, Ellie.” He ripped the cord, and the motor roared to life. “You will learn how to mow the lawn.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Rachel was supposed to spend the Memorial Day weekend with Barry, but he never called. I left a series of messages on his machine, but by Saturday morning I gave up.
“He must have gone on an unexpected business trip, honey,” I lied.
Rachel nodded bravely and said she understood, but her lower lip quivered. I busied myself with cleaning the kitchen, trying to suppress my concern. Barry was rarely out of touch for more than a week at a time, and he never missed a weekend with Rachel. Should I call? No. He was a responsible adult. Well, an adult.
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