Hattie Ever After (20 page)

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.

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

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.”