by Kirby Larson
A knock roused me from my nap with a start. “Who’s there?” I called, trying to shake the sleep from my voice. What time was it?
“It’s Maude. Several of us are going for supper. Would you like to come along?”
I ran to the door and flung it open. “Can you give me a few minutes?”
“We’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
P,
I will finish this letter with a description of my first San Francisco meal and new friend. Meal first: the lessers of the troupe (not my designation, but their own!) invited me on an excursion to Chinatown. If that were not adventure enough—Oh, the smells! The singsong language! The windows hung with plucked ducks and chickens!—we dined there, as well. I don’t know the name of the restaurant—Maude called it a chow-chow—but we sat cheek by jowl with others likewise inspired to try foreign fare. I ordered something called chop suey, which reminded me of nights on the homestead when I threw together bits of this and that for a meal. It was tasty enough, but I can’t see myself hurrying back soon. I did sample Maude’s noodles doused with some kind of spicy gravy and that was good.
Maude Kirk has taken me under her wing. She is pert and lively and loves a good joke. It’s very kind of her to befriend this little country mouse. Knowing there is someone to share a cup of coffee or commiserate with makes this big city seem cozier.
I will write again soon. You write, too!
Your Hattie
P. S. I’ve tucked in a picture post card of a Chinatown scene for the children.
P.P.S. If that was a mild tongue-lashing in your last letter, I tremble to think of a severe one. You and Charlie are in perfect agreement about my “foolhardy plan,” as you so kindly put it.
The evening’s adventure with Maude emboldened me to explore my new home the next morning. It was part exploration and part reconnaissance. With the city guide I’d purchased at Owl Drug in hand, I started off after breakfast. The Orpheum Theater was on O’Farrell, between Stockton and Powell. I made my way there first to be certain I could find it. The theater was dark, of course; as I’d learned over the past weeks, the thespian world did not conceive of life before noon.
I’d determined a secondary target some four blocks past the theater. My personal Mecca was at the corner of Market and Kearny: a spot that was home to the three biggest newspapers in town. Half afraid I’d lose my nerve, I marched down the street as if I carried front-page news in my pocket. In no time, I passed the famous Lotta’s Fountain and was rewarded with my first glimpse of Newspaper Row—the Call, the Examiner, and, right in front of me, loomed the Chronicle Building, a ten-story-high skyscraper. Its famous clock tower had been destroyed in the 1906 earthquake, but even without that dramatic finial, it was an impressive structure. I stood there a moment, taking it all in, allowing myself to fancify that someday I might walk into one of these buildings because I belonged there, that I’d have a desk and a typewriter and a pencil behind one ear, that I would hear the newsies touting my stories from the street corners. Read all about it!
One person after another stepped through the Chronicle’s great stone archway, topped with the newspaper’s name spelled out in glass tubes that lit up at night. I played at guessing the occupation of each entrant pushing open the immense plate-glass doors. The skinny lad with the tweed cap might be an errand boy. The bareheaded man would be a reporter, in a rush to type up his scoop. And that portly fellow had to be an editor. You could just tell by the way he carried himself.
“After you, miss.” A bow-tied gentleman was holding the door for me.
“Oh, I—” Why not go in? I’d come this far! “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
No one questioned me as I stepped into the grand foyer. In fact, there were such comings and goings, I doubt anyone even noticed me. Still, I felt somewhat like a child about to raid the cookie jar.
I found myself in front of the building directory. There it was: NEWSROOM. A little shiver went through me as I tried to imagine what such a place might be like. Would it be all clicking and clacking from busy typewriters? Reporters discussing the events of the world? Telephones ringing right and left? Whatever was up there, it was where I wanted to be. And all I had to do was get in that elevator, ride up a few floors and … and then what? Tell them about my pitiful little Honyocker’s Homilies? At best, they’d laugh in my face. More likely, they’d pelt me with full ink bottles. I turned to leave.
A gaggle of girls not much older than me bubbled past. A redhead with the latest bob and a lopsided smile waved my way. “Are you here to apply for a telephone operator job, too?” she asked with a warm Southern drawl.
I looked over my shoulder to find the object of her inquiry. Without waiting for an answer, she snagged my arm. “Come on. We’ll all head up together.”
There was nothing to do but tag along, my worn brown oxfords thudding on the regal floors as their fashionable pointed heels smartly click-click-clicked.
“Golden Gate?” The Southern belle asked me as we settled in the elevator car.
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re all grads of Miss Smith’s Secretarial. Since I hadn’t seen you around, I was guessing you’d gone to Golden Gate Business School.”
I shook my head. “I’m not from here.” My stomach sank, and it wasn’t because of the elevator ride. These girls had training. Diplomas. And snazzy summer dresses, not an outmoded wool skirt topped with a once-white shirtwaist.
The elevator doors slid open. “Here we are,” my new friend said. I let them all exit first, uncertain of what to do. I hadn’t the smallest clue about managing a telephone switchboard, and I could only type with two fingers! I eased into the back corner of the car.
“You’re not getting out, miss?” the operator asked.
Out of nervous habit, I touched Mother’s watch pinned on my bodice. She’d had backbone, and Uncle Chester had believed I possessed some of that family starch. Well, I’d faced down stampeding horses on the prairie; I could surely face down fears about applying for a job. The elevator doors began to close.
“Wait!” I stepped forward. “I do want out.”
The operator caught the doors before they shut and, luckily, before I lost my courage. “There you are, miss.”
I thanked him and approached the receptionist’s desk. The Miss Smith’s girls were being shown into a big room, where they were given headsets with trumpet-shaped mouthpieces. The equipment looked like something out of a Jules Verne novel. I hung back until they were settled and the door between us swung closed.
“I’m here to apply for a job,” I told the receptionist.
She looked at me over her glasses, eyebrows arched. With that look, my confidence nearly got on the train back to Great Falls. “You’re late for the telephone test.”
“Is there anything else?” I swallowed hard. “In the newsroom, perhaps …?” My voice trailed off.
“The newsroom!” The words were accompanied by a sharp bark of a laugh.
“I want to be a reporter.”
“And I want to marry John D. Rockefeller.” With a heavy exhale, she dismissed my aspirations. “Are you a high school graduate?”
I shook my head.
“Can you take shorthand? Type?” She clucked her tongue as I indicated no to both. “Well, what can you do?”
I can write, I wanted to say. But I didn’t want to diminish my dream by speaking of it aloud to her. She might be all gussied up behind that desk, but I’d met her kind before—like the girls who’d mocked my hand-me-down dress at eighth-grade graduation or Traft Martin and his men, bullying the Germans back in Vida.
“I’m sorry.” I turned to go.
“Sorry?” The woman looked puzzled.
“Yes. Sorry that your corset is too tight.” It wasn’t very nice of me, but there was no call for her to be so spiteful.
She leaned over her desk and stared right at me. And then she began to laugh. “You’ve got spunk,” she said with a shake of her head. “I�
�ll give you that.” Chuckling, she rummaged around in one of the desk drawers. “Here.” She pushed a form across to me.
I took it. “Cleaning staff?” Was this another of the good Lord’s jokes? I thought I had left that behind.
“It’s all there is right now. At least, for someone with your level of experience.” The telephone on her desk trilled and she snatched up the receiver. “Take it or leave it,” she mouthed to me before greeting the caller.
My hands shook as I filled out the form. She was still on the telephone when I handed it back to her, so she mouthed to me again. “We’ll call you.” I nodded and slunk away.
Outside, I claimed one of the benches by Lotta’s Fountain, breathing as hard as if I’d been plowing a field. My first day in the big city had already taken more out of me than my first week on the homestead! Too done in to move, I sat watching all the people roiling thick and dark as a summer grasshopper hatch.
So many people. Was there room for one more? Was there room for me? I huddled on the bench, feeling small and foolish. Nearly as foolish as the day I’d gotten myself stuck to a frozen pump handle. Why on earth had I thought coming here was a good idea? I hadn’t even liked that chop suey last night and it had set me back thirty-five cents. What if I never saw Perilee and Karl and the children again? Or Charlie? As I worked myself into a first-rate state of misery, a fluttering caught my attention. It was a snow-white feather, with soft frills of down rippling along the edges, spinning to a stop at the base of the fountain. Two feathers in two days. That verse from Matthew popped into my mind: “Are not two sparrows sold for one penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.”
I got off the bench and picked it up. Somehow it had managed to avoid the armies of feet marching all around the fountain. It was still pristine white. That was a small miracle.
All right. I might be feeling a bit like Jonah, and this city might seem like that whale, ready to swallow me whole. But miracles were still possible. Tucking the feather into my pocketbook, I said a quiet prayer: “Dear Lord, with your help, Jonah made out okay, so I’m trusting I will, too. Amen.”
Somewhere, a church bell chimed the hour. Time to make my way to the theater. I stuck my shoulders back. I hadn’t been so naive as to think I’d break into the newspaper business my very first week. So why feel blue? I needed to give it time. Besides, there was another reason I’d been drawn here, and I must not forget that.
As soon as I could, I would make my way to Union Street and make the acquaintance of Ruby Danvers and, through her, come to know my uncle.
Ruby and Pearl
Not that I was a swimmer, but I’d heard that there was no sense in wading when planning a dip in the ocean. It was best to dive in and get the business of getting cold over with all at once. Today was my diving-in day. I was going to mail a post card to Charlie and then call on Ruby Danvers, and in that very order.
I gathered my things, reading over what I’d written one last time:
July 1, 1919
Charlie,
Here is where I first set foot in San Francisco. My room at the Hotel Cortez is “de luxe” and my new friend, Maude, has kindly pared this big city down to size for me.
Perilee wrote that you looked them up when you got to town. Knowing her, you left with a full stomach and something home-baked and tasty for later. I took your visit to the Muellers to be a hopeful sign that I might get a reply to this post card.
Hattie
I sighed. There had been no answer to my two earlier cards. Perhaps the third time would be the charm. I could only hope.
The elevator door clanked open. When I stepped into the lobby, I bumped into Maude, off to have tea with her brother, Ned, before he went to work. She introduced us, saying, “Oh, I’m so glad you two have finally met. Ned’s promised me he’ll give you a tour of the Chronicle.”
On the train to San Francisco, Maude had discovered me scribbling and badgered me until I showed her some of my writing. From that moment on, she had contrived to introduce me to her reporter brother.
“I couldn’t impose,” I told him.
“Not an imposition at all.” He winked at me. “Even if it were, I’m used to being imposed upon. I am Maude’s brother, after all.” He ducked her swinging pocketbook with a chuckle.
“He’s impossible,” Maude said. “I wish we could stay and chat, but we’re running late.”
“We’re late?” Ned raised his eyebrows. “I would like it duly noted that I have been pacing this lobby for a full twenty minutes.”
“Oh, but I’m so worth waiting for, aren’t I?” Maude took her brother’s arm and they were off. I smiled after them. Their teasing brought to mind Charlie and me, at least the younger versions of Charlie and me.
“Good morning, Miss Hattie.” Raymond greeted me from behind the front desk.
I returned the greeting, holding out the post card. “Would you please mail this?”
“Sure thing.” He took it from me and then looked around for a moment.
“Outgoing mail slot. There.” I pointed. I hadn’t yet decided whether Raymond’s confusion was due to age or to the bottle he sipped from with alarming regularity. “I’ll be back later.”
“Did you want to send a reply to that message?” he asked.
“Message?” I felt as confused as Raymond.
“The phone message?” At my blank look, he felt around in his pockets, then pulled out a slip of paper. “Guess I forgot to give it to you.”
I took it from him. The Chronicle had finally called. Could I please drop by the newspaper at my earliest convenience? I certainly could! After my visit to Ruby Danvers. And—I avoided looking at myself in the lobby mirror—after some shopping. At the very least, I needed a new hat. Back in Vida, my shabby wardrobe was no different from anyone else’s. Here, I stood out like a square of gingham in a fancy silk quilt.
Thanking Raymond, I took a deep breath and commenced my mission. The sidewalks seemed quite spirited, with American flags fluttering from storefronts in anticipation of the Fourth of July holiday. Several hotels were decked out with enormous red, white, and blue buntings. I would have enjoyed the sights even more had I not been carrying, in my moist hand, a slip of paper on which was written out Ruby Danvers’ address. Maude had advised the most direct way to go, a kind gesture I did appreciate, but I now wished I had a more winding route to follow. Nervous at the thought of finally meeting Ruby Danvers, my stomach percolated like a pot of coffee.
Covington Apartment Hotel, where she lived, was less than a mile from the Cortez, but I splurged on the nickel fare to ride the cable car up to Union from Mason. No sense undoing my freshened-up hair and clean shirtwaist with a sweaty walk up a hill. First impressions iron permanent creases, Aunt Ivy had often warned me. If I must bring sad news, it wouldn’t do except to look my best. Though my best was hardly beguiling; no one my age wore such long skirts.
“Union!” the grip called out, and I quickly shook off my fashion daydreams and stepped down from the cable car. In for a penny, in for a pound; I would not turn back now.
Not ten steps from the cable car tracks, I found another gull’s feather, pure white along the shaft but deepening to the gray of Rooster Jim’s horses along the vane. I glanced up. It was almost as if someone—Uncle Chester?—was up there, scattering feathers before me like bread crumbs. With a lighter heart, I tucked the treasure into my pocketbook.
The two- and three-story flats lining either side of Union Street looked like grand ships, with bay-window prows sailing out over the sidewalks. In several of the windows, contented felines curled up on becushioned seats. I moved at a snail’s pace as much to take in the new sights as to try to calm my nerves, but each step set my heart to skittering faster and faster. Too soon I was crossing Jones. There it was: 1074 Union. The address from which the letter in my pocketbook had been sent.
The solid brick building and heavy entry doors furnished a dramatic contrast to my image of Ruby Da
nvers’ daintiness. Inside, the foyer was garlanded with faded crepe-paper streamers and the aroma of many years of onions cooking. My shoes tap-tapped across the worn tiled floor to the directory. R. DANVERS was the name next to apartment 302. Third floor.
Too jangled to latch myself into a metal cage for an elevator ride, I opted for the stairs. With each tread, I rehearsed my introduction: Mrs. Danvers? I am Hattie Brooks, and I bear sad news about my uncle. Mrs. Danvers? I am Hattie Brooks, and I bear— Wait. Perhaps instead, I should say my late uncle. That way she’d know right off that Uncle Chester was gone.
No. Too harsh. I would stick with my original script. Like the actors in the Varietals, I practiced my lines as I climbed up and up on increasingly rubbery legs.
I found myself in front of apartment 302. I knocked. And waited. Knocked again. Waited again.
“She’s at work,” a female voice behind me announced.
I turned to see a tiny old woman, no taller than a fence rail. Her white braid wound around her head in a flyaway tangle.
“I should have called ahead.” Just because I had the day off was a foolish reason to assume Ruby Danvers would be at home. “Is there somewhere I could leave a message?”
The old lady squinted at me. “When’s your birthday?”
What a question! But I wasn’t about to be rude to this granny. “October twenty-eighth.”
She sucked in her ill-fitting teeth. “Who keeps an arrow in his bow and if you prod him lets it go? A fervent friend and subtle foe. It is the Scorpio.”
“Yes. Well. I best be going.”
“You. You’re a Scorpio. Many great writers are.”
Now she had my interest. “Like who?” I didn’t know much about astrology except that Aunt Ivy called it unchristian.
“Voltaire. Robert Louis Stevenson. Stephen Crane.” She chuckled. “And Marie Antoinette.”
