Hattie Ever After (13 page)

After a hot-plate lunch of soup and crackers, I flipped open the journal Miss Clare had given me, tapping pencil against the page as I reread the opening sentence. It was giving me fits. “Among the various forms of employment that enlist the activity of San Francisco’s young women, Miss Katherine Ricks believes that few are more fascinating than that to which she gives her attention.” A reporter lived and died by the lead and the one I’d written was as lively as liverwurst.

What had I been thinking? I munched another cracker. Maybe the problem was that I was trying to write like some big shot instead of writing like plain old Hattie Brooks. I threw myself forward, head on the desk. My brain was as dry as a summer field. A few taps of my noggin on the hard surface did nothing to shake loose any ideas.

It had never been this difficult to write my Honyocker’s Homilies. Maybe it was because they’d started out as letters
to Uncle Holt; I’d had no idea he would pass them on to his friend Mr. Miltenberger, the editor of the
Arlington News
. When I’d written them, it was as if we’d been sitting on the front porch of an evening, chatting about the day’s events. Maybe I should try to imagine writing this article for Uncle Holt. Or Perilee. Or Charlie.

I pushed myself upright and drew a thick black line through that awful sentence. How would I explain what I’d learned from Spot’s sisters and their friends? I shifted my gaze around my room, desperately seeking inspiration. My eyes stopped at my desktop feather bouquet, and I thought about the birds to whom these had once belonged. They never fretted. They simply spread their wings and soared. Why couldn’t my words do that as well?

Wait. Spreading one’s wings. That was the gist of the stories I’d heard. Some of those girls hadn’t even wanted to work initially, but had done so out of patriotic feelings, for the war effort. But once they’d gone to work, they’d found they rather liked it. And now that the war was over, a choir of male voices clamored against them, saying that what they were doing wasn’t right.

I picked up my pen and scribbled down the sentence that popped into my brain. “Miss Tinny McLeary sought her starched nurse’s cap and uniform out of patriotic duty, but taking it from her now that the war is over would be akin to clipping the wings of a free-flying osprey.”

A shiver of pleasure wriggled down my spine as I inked in the period of that sentence. Now, this was a lead I could feel proud of. Of course, revising the lead meant revising the
rest of the article. But the time flew by as I scratched words out here and inserted phrases there. I do believe the building could have fallen down right around me and I would not have noticed. It was me and the page and nothing else. No wonder Ned loved his job so! This pushing and pulling at words was exhilarating. I sat back, rereading my efforts. In this moment, it didn’t matter that no other eyes might see what I’d written. It felt that good simply to have composed something fine. A story worthy of its subjects.

An idea tapped at the back of my brain. Mr. Monson had given me an old typewriter to use for my baseball story, the one on the desk in the back corner. The
h
key didn’t work and the carriage return was stiff, but being as I was a hunt-and-peck typist, it suited me fine. I would type up a copy of my article for each of the girls I’d interviewed. A small token of goodwill for their time. I’d start on it after my shift on Monday.

Someone rapped at my door.
Dum da-da dum dum, dum dum
. That was Maude’s “shave and a haircut” knock. I opened the door.

“It’s too lovely to stay inside.” Maude was dressed in white eyelet, with matching parasol. She looked like a vanilla ice cream cone.

“I have some washing out to do,” I told her.

“Nonsense.” She grabbed my hand. “The Ocean Boulevard calls,” she pronounced. “And there are two very dashing young fellows eager to be our escorts.”

“Two?” I asked. I was certain that one was Maude’s new beau, Orson.

“Questions later.”

“At least let me get my hat.” I selected my old hat, not as chic as my cloche but with a wider brim against the sun and salt air.

As promised, there were two young men awaiting us in the lobby. Orson, as I had guessed, and Ned.

“Miss Brooks.” Ned tipped his hat to me. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

I made a face. “More like a sore sight.” Even if Maude and I exchanged outfits, she would outshine me.

“Tut, tut.” Ned wagged his finger. “Here is how a lady accepts a compliment: she says thank you.”

“Thank you,” I said, adding, “but I don’t know about the lady part.”

“She’s hopeless,” Ned said to his sister.

“But that’s why you are so mad for her,” Maude teased. At least, I hoped it was a tease.

Orson was the proud owner of a brand-new Nash Touring Car, so we hopped in for the ride. He was soon expertly parking it in front of Benson’s Pool Hall, in a great row of other automobiles. Ned offered his hand to help me out of the car, but I stopped mid-exit. “Oh, smell that!” I wasn’t sure I would ever get enough of that briny air, scented with fish and seaweed and adventure. I turned to Maude. “This was a wonderful idea. Thank you.”

She winked. “Thank Ned.” Then she grabbed Orson’s arm. “Buy me an ice cream,” she said, and off they went.

“Do you care for anything, Hattie?” Ned asked.

I shook my head. “Just a walk. It’s so glorious.” We began
to stroll the boulevard adjacent to the beach. “You’ll laugh, but before I’d seen the ocean, I thought it must look like a flax field in bloom.” I looked off across the dunes to the sea. “They’re not at all alike. Both beautiful, of course. But not alike.”

“Do you miss it?” Ned asked. “Do you want to return?”

“To Vida?” I brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek. It was an interesting question Ned posed. Did I? “To see the people, yes. The place, no.” It seemed I’d made a choice not only to move westward, but also to move forward, not back.

“What about Iowa?” He tugged my arm to call my attention to a man in a wool swimming costume doing a handstand on the beach.

I pointed at the reason for the handstand. A threesome of giggling girls. Ned nodded. “So, Iowa?”

“No again.” Even when Charlie had still been there, I’d felt no tug to Arlington, or any other part of Iowa.

“Then I stand a chance.”

“Come again?” I had to quickstep to avoid a collision with an ice-cream-sticky little boy.

“Never mind.” Ned eyed the little boy’s ice cream. “That looks good. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“It has gotten a little warm.” Even from under my wide-brimmed hat, I was beginning to wilt a bit from the sun.

We made our way to the nearest ice cream stand. I ordered strawberry, Ned chocolate. “This is refreshing. Thank you.” I nibbled a bit of fresh berry as we continued our walk past the amusements. A barker called out, “Three tries for a dime. Only one thin dime!” Ned and I wound our way through the
crowds of promenaders, proud papas pushing baby buggies, little boys rolling hoops, little girls roller-skating. There were the daring, dressed in swim costumes, and the hangers-on, egging the former to dive into the sea. Enterprising sorts sold all manner of geegaws from wood crate storefronts. I was tempted by a thimble embossed with seals and bought it as a gift for Perilee. I also bought a penny post card of the Great Beach Highway itself.

Above all the people noise, gulls and other seabirds made it clear that this was their domain and we humans mere trespassers.

I chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Ned asked.

“Oh, I was just thinking back on my first day in town. I felt like such a country mouse.” I waved with my ice cream
cone. “All these people! The noise! The commotion! It gave me the jitters. And now, after a couple of months, it seems normal.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Ned said. “Because I have a secret plan for keeping you here.” He waggled his eyebrows like a mad scientist.

“Oh, dear!” I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead like the women always did in melodramas. “Whatever shall I do?”

He pretended to twist a long moustache. “Say yes.” Beneath the silliness, I sensed something else going on. I wasn’t sure what it was though.

“To what?” I concentrated on my ice cream cone.

“Being my partner.”

“In what?” I asked in a teasing tone. “Crime?”

“In news.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “What do you mean?”

He led me over to a bench and we sat. “President Wilson’s going to pay a visit to our fair city next month. Trying to get backing for the League of Nations.”

“I’d heard that.” What I knew about the League of Nations would fit in that thimble I’d bought Perilee.

“So that gives us about two weeks to earn the assignment. There’s a lot of background to fill in, to understand.”

“You want me to help with the research?” I’d gotten pretty good at that, if I did say so myself.

“That’s the ticket.” He sat back on the bench. “But I’d pay you myself. Monson doesn’t need to know about it. It’d be our little project.”

I thought it over. It was flattering that Ned wanted my help. But I knew he aspired to being more than a cub reporter. And something like this could boost his standing. Considerably. I sensed this was the time for some horse-trading. “I’ll do it. And you don’t have to pay me.” I held up my hand to stop his protest. “At least, not in cold hard cash. What I want is the chance to do some of the writing. If it’s not up to snuff, you don’t have to use it. But if it’s newsworthy, you do.”

“I’ve no complaints about your writing.” He chewed on my suggestion for a moment. “Seems fair.”

“I’m not finished.” This might be the chance to hang up my navy blue work smock for good. “We share a byline.”

“What?” Ned nearly jumped off the bench. “That’s just not done, Hattie.”

I shrugged. “Fine.” I stuck out my hand. “Good luck, then.”

He frowned. “And here I thought you were a sweet young thing. This is something Marjorie D’Lacorte might cook up.”

“I will take that as a compliment.” I stood. “Shall we keep walking? I see Maude and Orson up there.”

He snatched my hand and shook it. Firmly. “All right. All right. It’s a deal.”

“You won’t regret it!” I could have done a little jig right there on the boardwalk.

“Oh, I will,” he said glumly. “I already do.”

Tetrazzini Chickens Out

“Hattie! Hattie!” Raymond flagged me down. “Don’t worry. He’s gone.”

Raymond seemed even fuzzier this morning than usual. Maybe he nipped at two bottles last night rather than one.

“Ned?” I asked. I couldn’t think of any other “he.” But he’d picked up everything I’d pulled together for him the morning before, when I got off work.

“Scruffy-looking guy. Needs a haircut. Grease under his nails.” Raymond gave a tight nod, as if that was all that needed to be said about the unexpected visitor. “Asking for you. But I sent him on his way.”

“Well, I do appreciate your watching out for me.” I shifted the newspaper I carried to my other arm and pushed the button for the elevator. I was eager to catch a few precious winks, as Ned and I had a story to cover that afternoon.

Raymond stepped behind the front desk. “He wouldn’t leave till I took this message.” He handed me a piece of paper and I read the five words written there: “Mr. Whiskers’ friend was here.”

“Oh!” I stopped. “Do you know where he went?”

He scratched his head. “He did ask where to get a decent breakfast. I sent him over to Scuzzi’s.”

I flew upstairs to freshen up, then changed into the dress Ruby had bought for me. I popped on the matching cloche and hurried over to Scuzzi’s.

The restaurant was crowded with workingmen, a crush of male heads all wearing similar newsboy-style caps. It took me a second or two to pick out the head I was looking for. Hoping for.