by Kirby Larson
My hand went to my throat. “Well, three out of four isn’t bad.”
Her head tipped back and a lion’s roar of a laugh escaped. “You’ve got wit, that you have.” She motioned me close. “Scorpios are trustworthy. Not like some as have rapped on that very door.” She jigged her white head toward apartment 302. “So I can tell you. She’s got herself a fancy job for that Mr. Stuart Wilkes. Personal assistant, mind you.” Her eyebrows waggled. “La-di-dah.”
Was my astrologer friend in her right mind? The odds seemed against it, but what did I have to lose? “Where is Mr. Wilkes’ office?”
“Pacific Building. Downtown.”
It wasn’t far from the Orpheum. I recalled passing it. “Thank you. I’ll try her there.”
“You can try her, but not as much as she will try you.” The old lady held her hand up, as a pastor might when giving a blessing. “But you’re a scorpion. You’ll manage just fine.”
I smiled uneasily and backed away, giving my new friend an uncertain wave from the elevator car. As the door slid between us, she turned and I could hear her mutter, “Figaro, you darned cat. Where have you got off to this time?”
Out on the street, I consulted my Owl Drug map to make certain I was headed in the right direction. I opted to save the nickel carfare this time; I would rather apply it to the purchase of a cool soda at the end of my wanderings. As I walked, I puzzled over that peculiar little old lady. I’d certainly never met anyone like her before! And that is precisely why you came to San Francisco, I reminded myself. To do the unusual. And meet the unusual.
After a brisk walk, I found myself at the Pacific Building and stepped inside to study the directory. Accountants. Brokers. Detective agencies! Not one but two were listed: WEST COAST DETECTIVE AGENCY, THOMAS L. GRAY, GENERAL MANAGER, CHARGES REASONABLE, and GIGNAC SECRET SERVICE BUREAU, LUCIEN K. GIGNAC, PRESIDENT, DETECTIVE BUSINESS TRANSACTED THROUGHOUT THE WORLD. Imagine two detective agencies in the same place. Back in Arlington, there wasn’t even one. Truth to tell, such services weren’t needed, not with Aunt Ivy and the Ladies’ Guild keeping watchful eyes and sharp ears trained on the rest of the community.
I kept scanning the list. Could my old-lady friend have sent me on a fool’s errand? Insurance. Underwriters. There! WILKES, STUART, ESQ. 7TH FLOOR. Now I hesitated. Perhaps I should simply send a note. What if Ruby was in the middle of something? The news I had was hardly fit to share in a public place like an office. I reached into my pocketbook, feeling around for the letter, my fingers brushing the feather I’d found on my way to Ruby Danvers’ apartment. Okay, Uncle Chester. I’ll do it.
“Seventh floor,” I said to the elevator operator, squeezing into the nearly full car.
Three quick stops and we were there. I stepped out, glancing first right and then left.
“What office are you looking for?” the elevator operator asked. When I told him, he said, “Around the corner. End of the hall. You can’t miss it.”
And I couldn’t. The office door was the fanciest portal I’d ever seen in my life. All oiled rosewood, carved with curlicues and oak leaves. It would take a giant’s knock on that door to be heard inside. I took a deep breath and turned the gleaming brass knob.
The interior was as elaborate as the door, decorated with dark ornate woods and glass-fronted bookcases and statues and framed citations and diplomas. A blond woman wearing pince-nez spectacles glanced up from her work.
“Are you Ruby Danvers?” I asked.
She pointed to a nameplate on her desk that said MRS. HOLM. “Mrs. Danvers is on her way to lunch. Do you have an appointment?”
I shook my head and patted my pocketbook. “I have something to return to her.”
At that, Mrs. Holm picked up some sort of handset, and the next thing I knew, I was being escorted into an office as light and feminine as the outer sanctum was ponderous and masculine. Her back was to me, and she was slipping into hat and wrap, obviously preparing to leave, but she was just as I had imagined: delicate and small, a dainty magnolia flower to my coarse gumbo lily. The only thing I hadn’t imagined was the red hair.
“Mrs. Danvers? A young lady to see you.” Mrs. Holm announced me, then disappeared.
Ruby Danvers turned to face me, a quizzical expression on her face. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
I stepped into the room. “No. Not exactly. I have something that belongs to you.” I rummaged in my bag, retrieving letter and token.
She reached behind her for a chair and sat. Hard. “Close the door,” she said.
I did so, taking a deep breath before reciting the lines I’d rehearsed. “I am Hattie Brooks, niece to Chester Wright.” I cleared my throat. “The late Chester Wright.”
She motioned me near, holding out her hand. I laid my deliveries across her gloved palm.
She shook the token out of the letter and into that same palm. She lifted it to her cheek, looking even more fragile.
“When I didn’t hear from Chester right away, I knew it was bad news. One way or another.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then gazed at me again. “It was very kind of you to come. It could not have been an easy thing to do.”
“I am so sorry for your loss.” I recited words I’d heard Aunt Ivy and her friends say at times like this, twisting my pocketbook strap in my hands.
“I lost Chester a long time ago.” She uncurled her fingers and studied the token. “Silly of me to have kept this. And even sillier to have sent it.”
There didn’t seem to be anything for me to say to that. I stepped back toward the door. “I can see you’re on your way out.”
“That can wait.” She pointed to a chair arranged in cozy proximity to hers. “Please sit down.”
We settled ourselves. “Would you mind …” She paused. “Would it be difficult for you to tell me about this place in Montana that stole my Chester’s heart?”
I explained about his bequeathing me the homestead claim in the will. About my leaving Iowa to try to finish proving up on it. “I certainly bit off more than I could chew, but the thought of a home of my own—” I hugged myself. “Well, to an orphan, that’s pretty close to having a real family.”
“And you didn’t stay?” she asked.
“Couldn’t.” I told her the whole story, starting at the beginning, with the letter from Uncle Chester.
She was a good listener, asking a gentle question here and there, encouraging me to keep talking.
“You didn’t!” she said, when I told her about getting frozen to the pump handle.
“I did. Thank goodness Chase came along to rescue me.” That led me to tell her all about Perilee and Karl and the children, and my other prairie friends. I told her about digging fence posts and the barn fire. And, perhaps because we shared a bond of sorrow, I even told her about the Spanish influenza and losing our little Mattie Magpie. “I nursed her day and night,” I said, my voice straining around the pain. “Perilee’s other girls got better. But I couldn’t save Mattie.” This was the first time I’d uttered these words aloud.
She slipped over and knelt beside me, taking my hands in hers. “You mustn’t blame yourself, dear Hattie. It is so very clear how much you love those children.”
I soaked up her kind sympathy. How odd that I’d just met her and yet it felt as if our hearts had always known one another.
She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose with a lacy handkerchief. “A good cry always leaves me famished, isn’t that silly?”
I shrugged, trying to blow my nose as delicately as she had.
“Have you lunched yet?” she asked.
“No—”
“Oh, I imagine a young woman like you has plans.” She stood up, smoothing her skirts.
“Well, I did have plans to do some shopping.” I glanced down at my clothes. “What wears in Vida doesn’t wear in San Francisco.”
She clapped her hands together. “Shopping! Just the thing to boost the spirits.” She took her bag down from a hook behind her desk and slipped it on her
arm. Then she slipped her arm around mine. “I feel we are going to be best friends, Hattie.” She paused again, looking sad. “Having you near would make up for being so far from Pearl.”
At my questioning face, she continued. “My daughter.” She touched her neck, then laughed softly. “I’d forgotten—the clasp on the locket is being repaired. I usually wear her here, close to my heart.” She turned her gaze away from me, to the window. “She’s living with Mother right now. I need to work, and jobs are hard to come by in Santa Clara. A few weeks ago, a friend suggested this job with Mr. Wilkes and I couldn’t say no.”
I knew all too well about taking jobs out of necessity. “Oh, I hope I get to meet her.”
Ruby laughed. “Of course, every mother thinks her child is perfect. But Pearl is the sweetest thing. Only ten, but so grown-up and serious.” She shook her head. “When you come to tea, I’ll bring out the photo albums.”
When I come to tea! Finding Ruby Danvers was like chancing upon another Perilee. What luck for an orphan to find a home in two such big and kind hearts. Ruby nudged me toward the door. “I hear the Emporium calling us! Lunch first, then some serious shopping.”
Not only would Ruby not let me pay for my lunch, she insisted on treating me to my first big city ensemble. She picked out a summer dress of orange and cream, with a cascade of kick pleats that started above the knee, topped by a smart jacket in a warm yellow flower print, with ruffles at the elbows. I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror when I tried it on.
Ruby gave me a smile of approval. “That’s the kind of dress a girl wears when she’s going places,” she said.
I smiled at that. Even if one of the places she was going was to a job as a cleaning woman! Oh, well.
We tussled over the purchase of a hat. She wanted to buy me a saucy orange number with a bill that swooped to small wings behind my ears. It was dreamy, but well out of my budget. “No, I can’t let you pay for this, too.” I settled on a simple butterscotch cloche for the sensible price of $2.25. I also bought myself a well-priced worsted navy walking dress, with buttons the size of dinner plates.
When it came time to pay for our purchases, I brought out my wrinkled and hard-earned bills.
“Oh, dear, that is so old-fashioned. You really need to open a checking account. Next time we’re out, I’ll help you.” Ruby turned to the clerk. “I didn’t plan on shopping today and my checkbook’s at home.”
“That’s no problem, ma’am. If you’ll tell me which bank holds your account, I can provide you with a counter check.” Ruby named the bank and the clerk brought out the proper check blank. I watched carefully as she filled in her account number and then signed her name with a flourish. Even her signature was stylish.
“It’s been lovely, darling, but I best get back or Mr. Wilkes will wonder what he’s paying me for!” She kissed my cheek as we parted. “You look fabulous.” She’d talked me into wearing my new outfit out of the store. Though shorter hemlines were all the rage, it was hard to get used to seeing so much of my legs. Thank goodness Aunt Ivy was a thousand miles away! I could only imagine the lecture she’d give me. My new outfit made me feel modern. Ready for anything! I looked at my shabby oxfords. I was especially ready for footwear that matched the new me.
Ruby caught me staring at my feet. “Head over to Praeger’s. You’ll find good prices on the latest shoes.”
After the stop at Praeger’s, my pocketbook was another four dollars lighter, but my step was lighter, too, in my new brown tango shoes with the smart buckle across the front of my ankle. In fact, I felt smart head to toe, smart enough to stroll right over to the Chronicle to take that darned cleaning job. Lots of people had started at the bottom. Like Horatio Alger’s Ragged Dick. And Henry Ford. And even—dare I think it?—Nellie Bly.
Armored in my new wardrobe, I marched straight from Praeger’s to the Chronicle, the shopping bags with my old clothes banging against my legs. If nothing else, Miss Tight Corset would appreciate my newly adopted San Francisco style. I pushed through the great glass doors and fairly pranced across the grand foyer to the elevator bank. Today, cleaning woman; tomorrow, ace reporter!
The doors opened and I stood aside to let the passengers exit.
“Miss Brooks?” A male voice stopped me. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
It was Maude’s brother, Ned.
Headlines and Hard Truths
Whatever you are, be a good one.
—Abraham Lincoln
Ned crossed the lobby to meet me. “Are you here for that tour already? I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m waiting on a source to get back to me, so your timing’s impeccable.”
Of all the luck. Why did I have to run into him? He was a reporter. Of course a reporter would ask questions. “Yes. No. I mean, I wouldn’t impose on such short notice.”
Panic must have been apparent on my face. He stepped closer and took my parcels. “It’s really no bother. Come along.”
I tried one more time. “Honestly, I just stopped by to—” To what? My brain was not giving my mouth any assistance.
“And I’m delighted you did. Off we go now.”
I said a quick prayer that our wanderings would not take me anywhere near Miss Tight Corset. I responded to Ned’s warm smile with a tepid one of my own. Only I could get myself into such a pickle!
“Your secret is out,” he said.
“Secret?” Could this get any worse?
He nodded. “Maude told me that you’re published yourself. Honyocker’s Homilies. Sounds like something I’d enjoy reading.”
I stopped. “Promise you won’t tell anyone. About my homilies.” There’d probably be bruises later where I clenched his arm. “Promise.”
“Not only are you a writer, you’re modest, to boot.” He drew an X across his chest. “Promise. Now come on.” We stepped into the grating elevator. Up we went until the operator announced, “Newsroom.” Ned towed me out. We weaved our way through half a dozen young men milling about in the hallway. “They’re waiting for that big break,” Ned said.
“You mean they don’t work here?” I asked.
“No, but they want to.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It happened to me, it could happen to them,” he added.
“What happened to you?”
“This.” He slipped a press card from his breast pocket. “I was part of that crowd, too, but I hung around and hung around until one day all the reporters were out on assignment and Monson—he’s the managing editor—hollered for a stringer. I got to Monson first, snagged the story, and”—he grinned—“the job of my dreams.”
“That gives me the chills.” It also gave me hope about landing the job of my dreams.
We stepped around a corner into a well-lit space abuzz with activity and energy. “Welcome to the madhouse!” Ned motioned me forward. A parquet floor checkerboarded beneath our feet to a row of glassed-in offices, transom windows ajar above the closed doors. A double row of desks marched up the center of the room. Each desk’s occupant clicked and clacked away at the typewriter in front of them, occasionally ripping a page out of the machine and calling, “Boy!” That command summoned an office boy who took the sheet and ran it, Ned explained, “Off to the copy readers.”
I could hear Miss Clare’s voice in my head saying, “Close your mouth, Hattie.” But there was so much to take in! The staccato rhythm of the typewriter keys pounded into my very being. No salty sea air in here: I inhaled a mist of eraser dust, cigarette smoke, and excitement. I glanced down the rows of desks across a sea of suit coats dotted with the occasional shirtsleeve and started when I saw a hat that Maude would’ve envied. And that fabulous hat sat atop a head of hair the color of Praeger’s best black patent leather shoes. A woman! In the newsroom.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Ned.
“Miss Marjorie D’Lacorte.” He grimaced. “Otherwise known as the Tiger Woman.”
At that moment, an office boy sidled up to Miss D’Lacorte’s desk, stopping a
n arm’s length away. “Excuse me, ma’am—”
The Tiger Woman extended one red-polished claw into the air, signaling quiet. She kept typing, one-handed.
“Mr. Monson wonders—” the hapless boy started again.
“Monson wonders!” the Tiger Woman roared. “That’ll be the day. Now scram and let me finish this. I’ve got a smashing lead, and I don’t want to lose it.” The boy scrammed and Miss D’Lacorte tapped on the typewriter keys with military rhythm.
“I’ll introduce you two another time,” Ned said.
My innards sloshed like soup at the thought of being introduced to her. Ever. I wasn’t sure my head would survive the meeting.
Ned led the way back to the elevator, and we jostled and banged our way to the next stop. Over the commotion, he told me more about Miss D’Lacorte. “Marjorie is the Chronicle’s version of Nellie Bly. With a little Captain Bligh thrown in for good measure,” he added, referring to the cruel commander of the HMS Bounty. “She’s a good writer, but a hard egg.”
I wondered if a woman in a man’s world could be anything but a hard egg. That thought gave me pause, as I certainly wasn’t the Tiger Woman type. Maybe the roar came with experience.
The noisy elevator had been relative peace and quiet compared to our destination. “Watch out for boys with turtles,” Ned shouted as we stepped into an enormous room jam-packed with thundering machines.
“What?” I was certain I’d misheard him. Then a young man dashed by, pushing a wheeled rectangular cart. We barely missed colliding. “Turtles!” I exclaimed.
“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.
