Hattie Ever After (9 page)

“It’s lovely!” The package contained an elegant journal, the kind I drooled over but could never afford. “Thank you so much.”

She fussed with her hair. “Make sure you spell my name correctly when you write about me,” she said. But a wink accompanied her words.

There were hugs and good wishes all around from the actors as they straggled in for the matinee. I took a hug from Maude, too, even though we’d still see each other at the hotel. After shopping around, I realized that what had seemed extravagant to my newly-arrived-from-Great-Falls-self was a more than reasonable rate for San Francisco, so I was keeping my lodgings at the Cortez.

I hurried from the theater to Ruby’s apartment. She’d invited me for Sunday supper, since our picnic plans had fallen through. I’d dressed up for the occasion in my new navy
walking dress, set off nicely by my new butterscotch cloche. When I arrived and stepped into the building’s lobby, I noticed a funny little egg-shaped man wearing a straw hat and an impossibly pastel summer-weight suit. My astrologer friend had him cornered, wagging her head and muttering, “The goat does scheme for fortune and fame; beware, beware his game.”

The man nodded. “But of course. Of course.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, catching sight of me at that moment.

“Oh,
pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle
.”

But the elevator door opened and I popped in. “Sorry!” I made a sympathetic face as the gate clanged shut. After a morning of wrangling with Harry’s Hounds, I had no strength for rescuing complete strangers from dotty old ladies.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.” Ruby swooped me into a lily of the valley–scented hug. “I have a wonderful surprise.”

I hung up my hat and pocketbook and followed her into the apartment. A small mountain of brown-paper parcels teetered precariously on the heavy settee. A georgette party dress in a warm apricot, with price tag still attached, was draped over a leather club chair.

“You’ve been on a shopping spree.” Three Emporium hat-boxes leaned against a mahogany desk. The stodgy furniture seemed at odds with Ruby’s personal style. I would have thought her to possess delicate pieces, say a wicker settee or rosewood chairs with intricate carvings and cabriole legs. I lightly brushed my fingers against one of the dress’s apricot ruffles. “This is so pretty,” I said, though it seemed fancy for office wear, even Mr. Wilkes’ office.

She laughed. “That’s what happens when I get my paycheck and good news at the same time.” She moved aside the packages on the settee. “Sit down. I’m so excited, I don’t know what to do first.” She looked like a child catching sight of a well-stuffed Christmas stocking.

I sat, smiling back at her even though I didn’t know what I was smiling about. Her joy was simply contagious.

She started to sit, too, then stopped. “Oh, I bought the most delicious cookies. I’ll be right back.”

While she was in the kitchen, I took stock of the room. No fewer than three cut-glass vases brimmed with flowers. Though the furniture in the room seemed out of scale for its occupant, at least Ruby hadn’t tried to feminize it with tatted doilies. That was all the rage among Aunt Ivy’s friends, giving the impression that a lace blizzard had blown through. This room was bare of such fussiness. It was bare of books, too, which surprised me. With Uncle Chester being such a reader, I would’ve thought she might own at least one small bookcase, stocked perhaps with
Sister Carrie
, or
To Have and to Hold
, or even one of Frank L. Baum’s fantastic Wizard of Oz tales. The only book I saw was a heavy Bible, open on a tiger-oak table opposite me.

“Here we are.” Ruby carried in a tray with two tall glasses and a plate of those wonderful macaroons I’d already discovered at Schubert’s Bakery on Fillmore. She placed the tray on a butler table, then settled in a chair opposite me.

I took a cookie and sat back. “You’d best tell me your news or we’ll both explode.”

Ruby clasped her hands. “I don’t know where to begin.”
Suddenly, she was pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing her eyes.

“Are you all right?” I leaned toward her.

“Yes.” She held up her hand. “I’m so happy. So wonderfully happy.” She sniffled and then went on. “You can’t imagine how hard it has been since Mr. Danvers died. My dear mother lived with us and it fell to me to keep us all going, and then, with Pearl taking ill—” She stopped and looked at me. “Oh, that was thoughtless of me. If anyone could imagine hard times, it would be you.”

“Don’t. I know what you mean.” I indicated for her to continue.

She put away her handkerchief. “That’s why it is so special to be able to share this news with you. Pearl is coming home!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” This dear woman certainly deserved such news. “When? For how long?”

“In August.” She put her hand to her heart. “Things are finally going well for me. So perhaps she’ll stay for good.”

I flew to her. “Oh, that must be an answer to prayer.” We hugged and she kissed me on the cheek. When we pulled away, I was carrying her lily of the valley scent.

She picked up one of the paper parcels. “I was hoping you would help me make a quilt for Pearl. To help this”—she swept her gaze around the apartment—“feel more like home.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I’ll have you know I am the queen bee of quilters!” That might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but thanks to Perilee’s instruction, I could piece and stitch with the best of them. Hot tears pricked my eyes,
however, to think of the last quilt I’d made: Mattie’s Magic. I quickly shook away those tears and held out my hand for the parcel in Ruby’s. “Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

While we went through the packages, Ruby fretted about my new job at the
Chronicle
.

“I know you’ll be running the newsroom in no time,” she said. Her expression was so confident and sincere, I almost believed her. “But I hate thinking of you going to work at that time of night.” She reached for her pocketbook and brought out a five-dollar bill. “Use this for cab fare, please, and let me know when you need more.” I couldn’t take the money, of course, but what a jewel she was to offer it.

By the time all the parcels were open, it looked like a gingham cyclone had swept through the room. We played with laying this fabric against that until my stomach reminded me that breakfast had been long, long ago.

I reached for another cookie and pulled my hand back when I realized it was the last. “It’s bad luck to take the old maid,” I observed.

Ruby sat back. “Oh, you’re probably famished!”

I was, but it seemed poor manners to say so. Especially when it was clear she’d had no time to prepare a meal, not with all our fussing over Pearl’s quilt.

“I should have told you straight off that there’d been a change of plans.” She smoothed a ruffle on the apricot dress. “Mr. Wilkes invited me out to supper. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, no. Of course not.” I glanced at the mantel clock. “You probably need to get ready.” I stood up.

“I’ll cook for you next week,” she promised, fingering a gold chain at her neck.

“Oh, that reminds me.” I picked up a bit of paper that had fallen under the settee. “Is your locket repaired yet?”

She blinked. “Locket?”

I pointed to my own neck. “The one with Pearl’s photograph? I’d love to see what she looks like.”

“Oh, that locket.” She smiled. “No, it wasn’t ready. The jeweler was behind.” She shrugged. “The holiday and all that. I’m sorry about supper, Hattie.”

“Don’t give it a thought. But next time, I would love to see your photo albums. Say.” I looked at the jumble of dry goods lying about. “Why don’t I take some of this and begin cutting out pieces? Pearl will be here before we know it. We’d best get busy on this quilt!”

Monday at eight, I began to get ready for work. As I performed my toilette, I realized that the plus side of keeping night hours was that I had the bathroom all to myself.

I gave my new dress a pat but reached for my second-best shirtwaist and wool skirt, which I’d shortened the night before to a more fashionable six inches from the floor.

Raymond was dozing at the front desk as I tiptoed through the lobby. The cool evening air brushed me with memories of evenings on the prairie enjoying a well-earned rest after a full day.

My footsteps echoed in the quiet streets. I passed a yawning shopkeeper carrying his street-side displays back into his shop, a policeman, and assorted delivery boys. I saw only
one or two other women, in sturdy oxfords like my own, no doubt on their way to jobs similar to mine.

The tube lights over the entrance to the Chronicle Building flickered and fluttered like fireflies on a summer night. I rapped on the great glass door. As Miss Tight Corset had promised, the night watchman was there to let me in. Even though I was fairly certain Ned was long gone at this hour, I peered around as I entered. The coast was clear.

The night watchman directed me to the cleaning supply room. There I met some of my coworkers. One was a solid woman with tight curls and tight lips. She gathered her bucket and duster and mop with much thumping and bumping.

“That’s Bernice,” a girl about my age explained. “And I’m Emmaline McLeary, but they call me Spot.”

Her freckled face gave every explanation I might need as to why she was called such. I told her my name. “Welcome,” she said. “Up or down?”

Before I could confess that I didn’t understand her question, Bernice spoke up. “New girls work down. Them’s the rules.”

Spot turned to me. “Do you mind, then, Hattie?”

“Oh, you want me to clean downstairs. Sure, I can do that.” This was perfect. I’d soon make my way to the morgue sans Ned’s help!

“Lunch at two,” Bernice grunted. “In there.” She jabbed with her chin at a dreary room to my right.

“Is there a place to leave my things?”

Another grunt and jab from Bernice.

“Here, let me show you.” Spot led me into the little lunchroom, with its row of cubbies. “That locker’s free. Go ahead.”

I put my things in the open locker, closed it, turned the key in the lock, and pinned the key to my shirtwaist.

“Percy—he’s the night guard—puts coffee on for us at midnight. Long as you get your work done, we don’t count the coffee breaks.” Spot locked up her pocketbook and hat, handed me a smock embroidered with
San Francisco Chronicle
across the bodice, and dressed herself in matching garb.

I had never thought I would be grateful for my time at Mrs. Brown’s boardinghouse, but that was the state in which I found myself as I whipped through the offices on the lower floor. I shared a cup of coffee and conversation with Spot and Bernice during my break but decided I would forgo my wee-hours “lunch” for a respite of a different sort.

When two a.m. rolled around, I found myself in front of a massive wooden door with a faded hand-painted sign that read
MORGUE
. My emblazoned smock would serve as permission enough, should anyone stop me. But at this hour, it was highly unlikely. Still, I brought my feather duster with me, just in case.

It took both hands to open that door, especially since those hands were trembling. Entering such a dark place, at such a dark hour, was enough to wobble anybody’s knees! As I pulled at the handle, a dank and musty perfume wiggled its way out of the opening. I stepped inside, bracing the door with my body as it closed so that it wouldn’t slam.

I felt like Alice after she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. To think that all of this was the result of two brothers starting a
newspaper with a twenty-dollar loan, way back in 1865. Who was I to dare to pull down one of those weighty, oversized leather-clad volumes and peruse the old issues bound inside? I ran my fingers across a row of bindings, summoning the courage to begin. Sadly, the oldest volumes had been destroyed in the great earthquake and fire of 1906. I shivered a little, to think of this big city in shambles and smoke that April day. Back in Iowa, we worried about tornadoes, not earthquakes. I hoped I never had to experience one. Odd, wasn’t it, that both the great earthquake and our great president’s assassination had happened in the month of April. And didn’t the War Between the States begin and end in that same month? All events years apart, of course, but still. Peculiar coincidence.

Enough woolgathering. There was work to be done. A mystery to solve. I reached for a volume labeled
1915
. Ruby had regaled me with the story of her first meeting with Uncle Chester. “It was springtime,” she’d said with a starry look in her eyes. “At the International Exposition. I was touring it with friends. A ruffian stole my pocketbook and Chester chased him down and got it back.” She had sighed. “In the end, the only thing stolen that day was my heart.”

When she told me that story, I wondered how he could have left if she felt that way about him. I pondered this question for only a moment before my own guilt about Charlie pinched me. Perhaps it was a family trait, to leave the one you loved.

What a sappy train of thought. I sat at the library table, opened the volume, and thumbed through the pages until my eyes watered from the strain. Nothing jumped out at me.
And my lunch break was up. Reluctantly I slid the volume back, making a mental note of which issue to start with when I returned. Because until I found what I was looking for—whatever that was!—I would keep coming back

Two hours later, I had finished cleaning my section and made my way to the break room, glad for the chance to sit down. Bernice wasn’t much for anything aside from the occasional grunt, but Spot made up for her lack of conversation. Spot told me about each of her four sisters. “Mabs works at a cigar factory, the twins help Da at the shop, but Tinny, she’s the one. A nurse! Registered.” Spot shook her head. “She got my share of the family brains and then some, Tinny did.” Spot gave herself short shrift. She had brains; a person couldn’t spin out stories the way she did without them.

When quitting time rolled around, two thoughts occupied my mind on the walk home: a hot bath and Spot’s sisters. All of them working instead of staying at home, a highly unlikely scenario before the war. That was something to think about, wasn’t it? To write about? I envisioned a headline, “Women at Work,” and articles about different shopgirls and telephone operators and nurses and, yes, even cleaning ladies, throughout the city. That would have a San Francisco hook, wouldn’t it?