Shirley smiled in spite of herself. “Things sure seemed simpler when we were kids. We didn’t realize how good we had it.”
I agreed. “Kids have a way of magnifying their problems. Breaking up with a boyfriend seemed like the end of the world.”
“We always had Toad Hall.”
The words conjured up an immediate feeling of nostalgia. I hadn’t thought about Toad Hall in years. It was our name for an old abandoned cabin deep in the Minneapolis Woods, just outside of town. The name came from the Kenneth Graham novel, The Wind in the Willows and the fact we found a town hopping around inside the place the day we discovered it.
Someone said the tiny cabin didn’t look much like a Hall with a capital “H”and that a name like Toad Stool might be more appropriate.Shirley, who had suggested the name Toad Hall in the first place, said Toad Stool sounded like Hell with a capital H.
The name Toad Hall stuck.
The cabin remained dark and cool inside even on hot summer days. The floor was wood and most of the windows were broken, but we didn’t care. There were five of us: Shirley, me, Mary Lapinski, Sue McChesney and Ellen Landon: the only ones who knew about Toad Hall. We’d meet there a couple times a week for animated discussions of boys, teachers and parents.
“Whatever happened to the other girls?” I asked. “Do you hear from them?”
Shirley shook her head as she took a last drag on her cigarette and stubbed the butt out on an ashtray on the table beside her chair. “Mary and I exchanged letters for awhile; but you know how it is. It seems we’re all too busy living our own lives.”
“I’m sorry you and I lost track of each other after high school,” I said. “You were headed for the University of Michigan.”
“Yeah. But I dropped out in December of my sophomore year. Same old story: I ran out of money.”
“That happened a lot in the Thirties,” I said. With both of us puffing on cigarettes, the room had gotten smoky. I got up, walked over to the window and pried it open, trying to fan some smoke out into the night with my hand.
Shirley went on. “I worked in a hardware store down in Traverse City, planning to save some money to go back to college. But I wound up here in the U.P. again instead.”
“Must’ve missed the winters and the ten-foot snow drifts.”
“Not exactly. I just got tired of the hardware store. I went to work at a restaurant over in Negaunee; stayed there a couple of years. I came back to the Soo last January.” Shirley motioned to our bottles which, by now, were both empty. When I nodded, Shirley grabbed my bottle and went out to the kitchen, coming back with two full Pfeiffer’s.
“What’s your story, Kate?” she asked as she handed me a beer. “What brings you back?”
I went through the details of my ordeal with the punk on the porch and Miles’ insistence that I leave town. Then I told Shirley about my uncle’s reluctance to welcome me to the Soo.
“Say, that’s not surprising,” Shirley said with a wave of her free hand. “Why, with all these GIs here . . . it’s not a great place for a young woman in her uncle’s eyes.”
“What do you mean not a great place?” I said. “You’re here with all these GIs.”
“I said in her uncle’s eyes,” Shirley laughed. “In my eyes it’s a great place to be.” That started me laughing, too.
“Have you met Scotty Banyon?” I asked. “He seems like a great catch for any girl.”
Shirley turned serious. “Stay away from him,” she said. “He’s bad news.”
“Why do you say that?”
Shirley paused a moment, then shook her head. “Just stay away.”
Her reaction surprised me. I steered the conversation away from Scotty but I couldn’t get Shirley’s comment out of my mind. Were they dating at one time? Had she been in love? Had he broken off their relationship?
We finished our beer and called it a night soon after twelve o’clock. I had no trouble dozing off.
Looking back, the evening had been so comfortable and the conversation so natural that I never would have guessed it would be the last Shirley and I would ever spend together.
22
Monday, June 21
20 days before the dedication
I made sure I showed up early for my first day of work, and dressed to kill. I wore a red pants suit that had begged me to take it off the rack at Crowley’s. I completed the look with a red purse and a pair of red shoes that I figured would knock their eyes out.
Little did I know that my outfit would be upstaged by the news story of the year out of Detroit.
As I strode into the Morning News office I spotted Andy Checkle, the young man I had talked to the day before, and walked over to say good morning.
“This one’s yours,” he said pointing to the wooden desk facing his. “Crawford wanted me to tell you . . . and to help you get situated. He’s over at the new MacArthur Lock checking things out. Said he’d be in a little late.”
“Thanks.” I set my red purse on the desk.
“Say, what do you think about those riots?” Andy asked.
Riots? What riots? “What are you talking about?”
“The race riot in Detroit; started last night on Belle Isle. It’s all on the AP wire.” Andy pointed to a paper scroll on his desk that had been torn from the Associated Press news wire.
I picked it up and read. Negro and white youths had battled each other the past evening on Belle Isle, the popular island retreat for Detroiters’ summer picnics and softball games. White sailors from the nearby Naval Armory had joined in the melee on the side of the white youths and police had been called to restore order.
Racial tensions had been simmering in Detroit for some time, but it was hard to believe that it would deteriorate into a confrontation like this.
I decided to phone Wells Mayburn at the Times; I hadn’t spoken to my city editor since I arrived at the Soo. His extension was busy, so the switchboard put me through to Jim Russell who manned a desk in the city room two down from mine.
“Jim, what the devil is going on down there?”
“The whole city’s in an uproar, Kate. The fighting that started on Belle Isle has spread downtown. The cops are trying their best to cool things down, but they can’t be everywhere.
“It’s gotten completely out of control, Kate, and there are rumors that Negro leaders are asking Mayor Jeffries to call in federal troops to restore order.”
My first day on the job and I was sure I’d be covering a huge story.
Even if it was for a small town paper three hundred miles from the action.
23
“Say, is Crawford going to hit the roof,” Andy said as I hung up the phone.
“What are you talking about?” I looked at my watch. “I was here early; it’s a quarter of eight.”
Andy pointed at my legs. “Those,” he said. “Crawford doesn’t allow women to wear slacks in the office.” Looking around the newsroom, I saw five other women; all wearing dresses or skirts. I also noticed they were looking my way. My slacks suit had drawn attention, but not the kind I wanted.
“Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that,” I said. It had taken me a month and a half to talk the Times brass into letting women wear slacks in the Detroit office. I didn’t plan to roll over and play dead for Crawford my first day on the job.
My show of defiance backed Andy off, though. “Sorry,” he said, standing up. “I should have kept my mouth shut. Say, it’s not my rule; it’s Crawford’s. Personally, I think your slacks are swell, and Crawford’s out of date. This is the Forties, after all. Why, women are doing men’s jobs everywhere.” His face suddenly turned red. “Not that you’re a man ... I mean, it’s just that...”
“I know what you mean,” I smiled. “No harm done.”
Andy found me an unused Royal typewriter along with some paper and pencils, which I placed in the top drawer of my desk. He also brought us coffee from the pot on the table against the wall. Soon we were both sitting, facing each other, si
pping from our cups. It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn to the war.
“Do you think General MacArthur’s going to return to the Philippines like he said he would?” Andy asked.
“I wouldn’t bet against him,” I said. “It took an order from President Roosevelt to get him to leave Corregidor. He didn’t want to desert his troops.”
“I just wish I were over there somewhere,” Andy said. “I would be if it weren’t for these.” He pointed to the thick lenses in his wire-rimmed spectacles. His eyesight, or lack of it, had no doubt kept him out of the service. If he lost those glasses in combat he’d likely wind up shooting his own men. “I came darn close to getting in.”
I took another look at those lenses. “You’re kidding.”
“Ron Berry, a guy I grew up with, is stationed at Fort Brady,” Andy said. “Works near the office where they give the physicals. I talked him into writing down the sequence of letters on the eye exam chart. I memorized them.”
“Oh?”
“I took off my glasses and read the chart like I was 20/20,” he said.
“So you fooled them?”
“Not exactly. How was I to know they had switched charts?”
“What happened?”
“The Doc played along for awhile. Told me I didn’t need glasses and wouldn’t give them back.”
“So?”
“What could I do? I finally headed for the door.”
“And?”
“I walked into a broom closet. They retested me on a new chart and I wound up 4-F.”
“Tough luck,” I said, holding back a smile.
“Aw, you think it’s funny, too. Everybody does. I just wish people could see things my way. No pun intended.”
“There are ways other than the Army to serve your country,” I said.
“I suppose that’s true.” Andy looked down at his coffee cup then back to me. “I just wish I could do more here. Every time there’s an assignment that means anything Crawford gives it to one of the older reporters. I get stuck writing about weddings, funerals and errant barrage balloons.”
“Errant barrage balloons?”
“Happens every once in a while. The wind gets hold of them and they break those cables and float away. They found one downstate in Cheboygan just this past May.”
“No kidding?” I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the young guy. He seemed smart enough. Like a lot of bright young people he just needed a chance to show what he could do.
“Why can’t I cover stories like the fellow who just got shipped home from the front?” he said. “Gary Hawes. I went to high school with him. He was wounded at the Kasserine Pass. That story’s a sure bet to make the front page and I should get the assignment. But I’ll probably wind up writing about Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias.”
“Gardenias? Who cares about Gardenias?”
Before Andy could answer my question the front door swung open and Jack Crawford came in off the street. “Morning, Brennan,” he called across the room. “C’mon into my office. I’ve got an assignment for you.”
24
I looked at Andy, but he just shrugged. I chose a pencil and a tablet from the stash he had given me and walked across the newsroom into Crawford’s office. As I entered, he was removing his hat and suit coat and hanging them on a pole against the window. Had he noticed my slacks outfit?
“Sit down, please,” he said, motioning to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. I sat, crossing my legs directly in front of him. My slacks stuck out like a red flag, but Crawford said nothing. He sat down at his desk and rolled up both sleeves. I opened the notebook and waited for him to begin.
Would the assignment involve the race riot downstate? Or perhaps the new McArthur Lock? Or would I draw the job of interviewing the soldier just shipped home from the front?
“Gardenias,” Crawford said simply.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Gardenias. You know . . . the flowers?”
“What about them?” Flowers? What did flowers have to do with my assignment?
“Apparently Mrs. Viola Brinkwater is known all over the Upper Peninsula for her gardenias. They’re extraordinary.”
“I’m sure they are. But...”
Crawford held up his hand. “Your uncle told me that every year about this time the paper does a feature story on Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias. How she grows them, her latest gardening awards ... that sort of thing.”
“You want me to write that story.” The way I said it sounded like a statement, not a question.
“Yes I certainly do.”
“Mr. Crawford . . . are you aware of what’s going on downstate? There’s a serious riot happening right now in Detroit.”
“Yes, I know. We have all wire service stories and we’re using them.”
“But what about a local angle? I know people in Detroit, both white and Negro. I can give us some local sidebars.”
Crawford let out a sigh. “Miss Brennan, I know perfectly well what’s happening in Detroit. But this is Sault Ste. Marie; we’re three hundred miles away.”
“But it’s news.”
Crawford held up a hand. “And we’re reporting it, thanks to the Associated Press and United Press wire services.”
Crawford wasn’t going to let me cover the action in my own hometown, but I felt I had to persuade him to let me write about something other than gardenias.
“What about Gary Hawes, the guy who was just shipped home from the Kasserine Pass?” I asked. “That’s going to be a great article.”
“I agree,” Crawford said. “I’m giving it to Chuckles. . . er, Andy Checkle. He went to high school with the kid. Knows him well. Besides he’s worked hard and deserves a break.”
I swallowed hard. “I think he’ll do a swell job,” I said. And meant it.
“Here’s Mrs. Brinkwater’s telephone number,” Crawford tore a sheet of paper from the notebook in front of him and handed it across the desk. “She’s expecting your call.”
I took the paper and got up, heading for the door, when Crawford’s voice rang out again.
“By the way, Brennan. About those slacks. . .”
I whirled to face him, ready for a fight. “What about them?”
“They look great on you.”
I nearly fell over.
25
I reached Mrs. Brinkwater by phone and, discovering that her daughter was in town visiting, I arranged to meet her for an interview the next day.
I spent the morning in the News office watching reports from Detroit coming in over the wire, learning my way around the office and getting to know the people who worked here.
Andy Checkle proved to be a great help, showing me where supplies were stored and introducing me to the staff, including two of the four News reporters. I spoke with Carol Olson and Mary Nelson; the other two were out on assignment.
I wrote a couple of articles on local affairs. Pretty dry stuff.
I stopped at the Red Owl on the way home and picked up some groceries: a pound of pork chops, potatoes, chicken, broccoli and milk. I broiled two of the pork chops, baked a potato and steamed the broccoli on the stove. Mick was my sole dinner companion. Shirley had said she wouldn’t be home until after eleven, and would eat her supper at the restaurant.
I listened to the radio as I washed dishes. The news from Detroit wasn’t encouraging. More than 6,000 federal troops were spread over the entire city, virtually shutting it down. Governor Kelly had issued orders closing down all restaurants, taverns and movie houses. Still, pockets of violence flared.
Two rumors fueled the flames of hate. One flourished in Paradise Valley, home of much of Detroit’s Negro population. A man identifying himself as a policeman told patrons of one nightclub that whites had thrown a colored woman and her baby off the Belle Isle bridge the night before.
Another rumor that a Negro man had raped a white woman on the bridge stirred whites into a frenzy.
As I finished the dishes I noti
ced that Mick had walked over to the back door and was looking at me. I knew what he wanted, so I opened the door and followed him into the backyard. It took him about fifteen seconds to locate a stick of appropriate size and drop it at my feet. I flung it as far as I could and our game was on. Playing stick with Mick seemed exactly what I needed to get my mind off the madness in my beloved hometown.
After fifteen minutes or so, Mick was worn out. I could tell by the way he dropped the stick twenty feet or so away, instead of bringing it to me. He’d let the stick drop and lay there panting, giving himself a chance to rest.
That was fine with me. I went into the house and turned the radio back on. I needed a break from the insanity going on downstate so I tuned in Jack Benny instead of the news. His humor was just what the doctor ordered, and I found myself actually laughing out loud.
I went to bed at 9:30, leaving a light on in the living room for Shirley.
26
I awoke in the darkness, a feeling of uneasiness washing over me. I switched on the lamp by my bed and saw that the alarm clock on the table beside it pegged the time at quarter after one. I sat upright, and noticed light streaming in from under the door.
Pulling the covers off, I got up and walked quickly out into the hall, Mick trailing behind. The single light I had left burning in the living room was still blazing.
“Shirley?”
I called again. Nothing.
Shirley might have stayed at the restaurant for a drink at the bar, but somehow I didn’t think so. She had said rather emphatically that she’d be home right after work.
Something was terribly wrong. I could feel it in my stomach.
I dressed quickly and, leaving Mick to guard the house, I began walking the few blocks to Blades’ place.
As I neared the restaurant, I noticed that a crowd of thirty people or so had gathered around the front door. I started running. I pushed my way through the people, but was stopped by a sheriff’s deputy at the door. I flashed my Soo Morning News card and my worst fears were confirmed when I asked him what had happened.
Dead Lock Page 5
