Hattie Ever After (8 page)

“And nothing slow about them.” Ned motioned me over
to a stationary turtle. “This is the chase,” he said, indicating a heavy metal frame atop the turtle-cart. “The compositors take slugs of type from the linotypes over there—” He pointed to two rows of massive machines, groaning and roaring in operation.

They could have been dragons, crouched on sturdy haunches, the sunlight barely piercing their smoky exhalations, ready at any moment to spread colossal scaly wings for flight. The only things to remind me that these were not dragons, though no less fantastical, were the operators’ brass spittoons gleaming brightly on the floor next to each machine.

“And then they lock them into the chase, here, before rolling the turtles to the press room,” Ned finished his explanation.

I couldn’t help covering my ears as we walked the entire length of the floor. We exited through a steel door, and the immediate quiet in the stairwell was pure joy to my throbbing head. “How do the men stand the din, day after day?” I asked.

“Well, it’s part of the job. So is shaking out bits of linotype lead from their clothes each night. But I don’t imagine one fellow in there would trade his job for anything. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that.” Ned once again offered his arm for our journey to yet another floor, where a huge wave of inky perfume rolled over and around us. Again, it was noise on top of noise as presses clattered and ground, paper rolling off great reels like black-and-white yard goods. I smiled to think of making a quilt out of all this newsprint.

We moved from the noisiest rooms to the quietest. Not that the editorial floor was all that quiet. People were calling out to one another, and in the pauses between voices and ringing telephones, a squadron of blue pencils scritch-scratched over reporters’ copy.

“Now you’ve seen it all,” Ned said. “Almost.” He gestured down with his thumb. “There’s still the morgue.”

A chill shot through me as we retraced our footsteps even though I knew a newspaper morgue housed not bodies but back issues. “Do you have to work here to use the morgue?”

Ned rubbed his dapper moustache. “Why? Is there someone whose checkered past you wish to uncover?” He guided me to the right. “We’re going to turn at the end of the hall there.”

I forced myself to keep my tone as light as his. “A lady never snoops.” But I had been thinking about pasts—specifically, Uncle Chester’s.

He laughed aloud. “I’m sure you’re right about that. Ladies don’t.” He pulled open the next door for me. “But reporters—both male and female—surely do. It’s part of the job.”

“Well, Miss Brooks.”

I turned at the vaguely familiar voice. “Oh. Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said to Miss Tight Corset.

Ned wore a quizzical expression on his face. “You two know each other?”

“Hardly.” Miss Tight Corset pursed her lips. “But I may have the pleasure”—she said this as if she meant the complete opposite—“should Miss Brooks accept our offer of employment.”

“You’re coming to work here?” Ned straightened his tie. “That’s the bee’s knees. Which department?”

I made my eyes look as pitiful as possible, sending Miss Tight Corset a silent message not to tell.

With a brisk nod, she took my arm. “No chitchatting. There are papers to be filled out. You can socialize on your own time.” With that, I took my parcels back from Ned and she escorted me away. I could have hugged her! I gave Ned a quick glance and a wave over my shoulder.

You would have thought I was applying for a job as publisher of the newspaper, there were that many forms to fill out. Miss Tight Corset turned off her desk lamp and was gathering her things up to go home for the night by the time I finished.

She gave them a quick once-over. “This all looks fine. Can you start tomorrow night?”

The job was the graveyard shift, ten p.m. to six a.m. Worse than farmer’s hours. But much better than farmer’s pay! Better than a wardrobe mistress’s wage, too. “I need to give my current employer a day or so notice.”

With a sigh she flipped through the day calendar on her desk. “Hmm. Thursday’s the third, and it seems pointless to start the day before a holiday. I guess you’ll have to start Monday. I’ll tell the night watchman to expect you. Come to the front door. There’ll be a work smock for you in the custodial room.”

I gathered my parcels and smoothed the skirt of my new dress. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Believe it or not, I was young once, too.” She settled her hat on her head. “Good luck with your young man.”

She was out the door before I could correct her mistake about Ned. No matter. I took a deep breath. I had a job at a newspaper! I did a little twirl, right there in the employment office. It wasn’t the job of my dreams—far from it—but it was a job for a newspaper. I only hoped it wouldn’t be too long from heavy lifting to headlines! I hummed while waiting for the elevator to arrive. Though I wasn’t crazy about the thought of walking to work at night, the late shift would mean it would be easier to avoid Ned. With luck, he’d never know his sister’s friend was dusting the desk he sat at each day.

The elevator dinged and I readied myself to step inside. And found myself face to face with Ned. Again!

“Fancy meeting you here.” He winked. “Everything all set with the new job?”

“Yes. Quite set.”

“Want me to show you where the steno pool is?” He stepped aside to make room for me in the crowded car.

“Oh, no thanks.” This wasn’t exactly a fib. I didn’t
say
I worked in the steno pool; he assumed that.

“I have a fine idea to go with that fine new dress.”

My cheeks burned hot with the attention.

“We’re practically coworkers. I’d say that calls for a celebration. Do you have plans for dinner?”

I shifted my feet. My new shoes pinched a bit. “It’s only a starter job.”

“Well, you have to eat, don’t you? Have you been to the New Delmonico?”

“No, but I couldn’t—”

He shook his finger at me. “What you really mean to say is ‘Yes, I’d love to, Ned.’ ” Then he cocked his head and batted
his lashes, doing his best imitation of a pup with big brown eyes. I couldn’t help it. I started laughing.

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

Why not? A pleasant dinner with a new friend beat out a grilled cheese sandwich from the corner diner any day. “It’s a yes.”

Once again, he took my bags from me, and we stepped outside, brushed by a warm summer breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a tuba oompahed, and strains of a John Philip Sousa march filled the air.

Ned and I chattered the entire way to the restaurant. He was full of stories. Summer holidays with Maude. Pranks he’d pulled in college. Stateside war duty stuck typing reports. “The only good thing about that desk job was that my boss was an old newspaper man. Drilled the ‘who, what, where, when, why, and how’ into me, that’s for sure. Ah, here we are.”

New Delmonico’s was the swankiest restaurant I’d ever been in. It would take more than a chic dress and new hat to make me look like I belonged. Ned took it all in stride, greeting the maître d’ by name and shaking his hand.

After we were seated, I did my best to nudge my shopping bags under the table while Ned ordered each of us an iceberg lettuce salad with shrimp and Russian dressing to start. He went for the roast beef main course; I chose the chicken. A waiter swooped by, balancing a tray laden with glistening wedges of chocolate cream pie. I made a note to leave room for dessert.

“So. When do I get to read some of your writing?” Ned asked.

I concentrated on sweetening my iced tea. “Oh, it’s not very good.”

“Quantity grows quality,” he pronounced. “And Maude says you’re always scribbling away in every spare moment at the theater. That’s the first sign that you have the disease.”

“Disease?” I didn’t realize Maude had seen me writing backstage. I thought I’d been so discreet.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes. It strikes the least suspecting. It begins with rewriting letters to friends before mailing them off.”

How did he know I did that?

“And then it moves on to challenging oneself to find twelve ways to describe a”—he glanced around the café—“a tomato aspic.” He sighed heavily and dramatically. “And finally, the patient succumbs.”

Ned had a knack for tickling my funny bone. I laughed. “To what, pray tell?”

“To a life of writing.”

“I wish.” I picked up my fork and set it back down. “Tell me about your job. What’s it like to be a real reporter?”

His eyes lit up. “No two days are ever the same! And you never know when something’s going to blow. You have to think on your feet. And you have to trust that, no matter how dry your brain is, once you press your fingers to those typewriter keys, some kind of story is going to emerge.” He tapped the white tablecloth with his fingertips as if typing. “Besides, even if it’s darned good, the copy readers will rip it to pieces.” He rolled his eyes.

The waiter arrived with our salads and we dealt with napkins and salt and pepper and tasting and such for several
minutes. I savored the cool flavors in my mouth—lettuce, shrimp, and tangy dressing—as I savored the thought of being a reporter, like Ned. The thought was equally as delicious as the salad.

“So is Miss D’Lacorte the only woman reporter at the paper?”

He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “General reporter, yes. There are two gals on the fashion and society desk.” He crooked his pinky. “Silk dresses, silver spoons, and all that.”

We munched in silence for a few moments.

“Well, does she have to be the only woman reporter?” I reached for my glass of water. “Is there room for another?”

“Like a certain Miss Brooks?” he asked.

I felt my cheeks go hot again. But I stood my ground. “Why not?”

“Indeed.” He leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands, and looked straight at me. “Why not?”

“So what would it take, do you think?”

His expression grew thoughtful. I was grateful to him for taking me seriously. “You’d need a story. It doesn’t have to be page one–worthy, but it must be the kind of story that makes you stand out. Something only you could write.”

I traced the fork tines through the dribs of salad dressing on my plate. “I don’t suppose anyone here wants to read about my homestead exploits.”

“Not that they wouldn’t want to, of course,” he said gallantly. “But it’s been done. You need something new. Something different. Something with a San Francisco connection. A hook to
this
city.”

An idea began bubbling like soup stock on low heat. “It could be about anything?” I asked. Or anybody, I added to myself.

“Sure.” He waved the waiter over to clear away our salad plates. “Whatever it is, you can count me in to help.”

The conversation shifted as we enjoyed our main courses. Even though I’d tried, I had left no room for dessert. Ned had a cup of coffee, and then he paid the bill.

“Thank you,” I said, hesitating to even give voice to the request on the tip of my tongue. Was it proper? Was it right? Would it even be news? Well, a fish certainly doesn’t jump in the skillet by itself, does it? As Ned said, I needed a hook. And it could be that I had one. I’d never know if I didn’t do some digging. “You’ve been so nice, I hate to impose further—”

“Impose away, fair lady!” He bowed his head at me across the table.

“Could you get me permission to use the morgue?” I ducked my eyes down. “And would you?”

“Could and would,” he said, pulling my chair out. “You let me know when.” He took my hand in his warm firm grasp and shook it. “I look forward to it. And I look forward to seeing you around the Chronicle Building!”

I forced a smile, imagining him catching me with a bucket of suds and a mop. Not if I can help it, I thought. Not if I can help it.

Piecing Together a New Life

A new act had joined the Varietals: Harry Horowitz and his Happy Hounds. The resultant increase in wear and tear on costumes (the Hounds were not Happy unless chewing holes in performers’ trousers, skirts, and an alarming assortment of other stage garb) required that my last day as wardrobe mistress be postponed until Sunday—the day before I started at the
Chronicle
.

The deluge of doggy-related disasters had kept me from accepting either of the invitations I’d received for Fourth of July activities. Ned and Maude had invited me to a party at a friend’s home, and Ruby planned a picnic at the Presidio.
I celebrated our nation’s independence by patching a hole in the seat of Mr. Lancaster’s best tuxedo pants. By Sunday afternoon, I might have still been mending costumes had Mr. Lancaster not issued an ultimatum that if he found one more tooth mark on any costume, prop, or personal effect, he would sell the Hounds to the nearest Chinese restaurant—“toot sweet.” Harry promptly produced muzzles for his pooches, and I was given leave to, well, leave.

Miss Vera Clare had fussed a bit about my resignation. “Your timing is most inconvenient,” she said, apparently having forgotten her plan to hire a new wardrobe mistress upon our arrival here. But she did present me with a going-away gift.