Hattie Ever After

by Kirby Larson

“Stupendous idea.” Gill, the police beat man, slapped his hands together. “I can’t wait to read the little lady’s breathless prose. ‘Oh, it was so much fun to watch those nice men run all around those darling little bases,’ ” he intoned in a falsetto.

  “Don’t you think she can do it?” Miss D’Lacorte asked, her tone a dare and a vote of confidence all in one. This was the closest I’d come yet to her actually speaking to me.

  “She’s a kid!” Gill sputtered. “Okay, maybe she can write a sentence or two, but it takes skill to cover sports.”

  “That doesn’t seem to stop Ace,” someone called out, and the room bubbled with laughter. Even Ace joined in.

  “Mr. Monson, if I strike Gill out, will you give me the game assignment?” The question slid out of my mouth, completely bypassing the common sense part of my brain.

  He rubbed his hand over his mouth, forgetting about the cigar. He barely managed to catch it before it went flying. “Out of the question!”

  “Where would we get the equipment?” one of the hangers-on shouted. The gaggle of them had crept away from their usual spot by the elevator, venturing into heretofore forbidden territory. One particularly bold hopeful now leaned against Ned’s desk.

  Ace jerked open a desk drawer and called out, “Play ball!”

  Gill ducked as the ball bolted toward us. I snagged it. Left-handed.

  Mr. Monson’s cigar waggled.

  “What will I use for a bat?” Gill was beginning to sound like a whiny schoolboy.

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth before office boys began scouring the premises. They not only came up with a bat—left over from the last newsboys’ picnic—but with a right-handed glove. “You’re a southpaw like me,” said the elevator boy. He told me that he stored his glove in his work locker to keep it out of reach of a sticky-fingered younger brother. “But I’d be glad for you to use it.”

  “Looks like we’ve got all the necessary equipment,” said Ace.

  “This is nonsense.” Gill slumped lower in his desk chair.

  Someone clucked like a chicken.

  “If you’re afraid …,” Ace started.

  Gill glowered at him. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Flash Finnegan followed us out the door.

  “No cameras!” Gill blocked his way.

  Flash pointed to the Graflex around his neck. “Camera,” he said, emphasizing the a at the end of the word. “Singular.”

  Gill’s growl caused Flash to cackle gleefully. “On our way, then, men!” Flash called. “Oh, I should say, men and lady.” He bowed deeply to me, bracing his precious camera against his chest. We were quite the parade, winding through the composing room and down several flights of stairs to the dingy metal doors on the backside of the building. Out in the alley, Ace threw down a copy of yesterday’s front page to stand in for home plate and then paced off the distance to my pitcher’s mound, which was last Sunday’s funnies.

  “This okay, Hattie?” Ace asked.

  I nodded.

  “Do you want to warm up?” He pounded his left palm with his right fist.

  It seemed a long way to home plate. Farther than I was used to. But I knew he was being fair. I shook my head.

  Flash hooted. “That’s crust for you!”

  It was then I noticed that Mr. Monson had followed us outside as well. In fact, he was carrying the newsboys’ bat. He presented it to Gill. “Play ball!”

  Without any discussion, Ace stepped in as umpire. My new friend, the elevator boy, squatted in front of him, playing catcher.

  The first thing I did was unbutton the sleeves on my shirtwaist and roll them up. Ladies’ clothes are not designed for baseball. Then I put my foot on the funnies, smack dab on Mutt and Jeff. I took a deep breath, reminding myself of what Charlie had taught me. “The first rule in pitching,” he always said, “is never to aim the ball.”

  Down the alley, Gill jabbed at the air with a few powerful practice swings. I imagine his goal was to intimidate, but he was accomplishing quite the opposite. His performance was akin to sending a telegraph from Western Union. Watching him, I was betting that he’d go after the high heat. I decided to save my specialty, the snake ball, to use only if needed. Well, and maybe to show off a little. I hid a grin behind my borrowed glove.

  Even though my body was in a narrow San Francisco alley, my head was back in Iowa, on one of the sweetest fields ever, at the back of the Hawley barn, where Charlie had painted a target. Those had been sunshine days, all glow and easiness, without one care in the world. When Charlie had been my pitching coach and nothing more.

  I couldn’t afford such distracting thoughts right now. I had a batter to face down.

  As if it were just me and Charlie, behind their barn, I went through my motion and released the ball.

  “Strike one!” Ace called.

  “Lucky break.” Gill tapped the bat against his shoe. “Watch out,” he taunted. “This one’s going for Oakland!”

  Another deep breath and another release. Not as smooth, but it did the trick.

  “Stee-rike two.”

  Gill dropped his bat and glared at Ace. “That was no strike!”

  Ace folded his beefy arms across his chest. “I calls ’em as I sees ’em.” He motioned for Gill to turn around and stand up to the plate.

  I wasn’t one to brag. I was a good pitcher. But games we played back home weren’t regulation. This was the first time I’d ever had to propel a ball sixty feet. My shoulder ached. And it showed.

  “Ball one!” Ace called it fairly. I’d known it was a ball as soon as it left my hand. The next two pitches were ball two and ball three.

  “Full count,” someone murmured, as if I didn’t know. Full count. I was in a heap of trouble with one last chance to strike Gill out. I could almost hear Aunt Ivy sniping: “Pride goeth before a fall.” Was it prideful to believe I could do a good job with that baseball game assignment? No. But claiming that I could strike Gill out was purely prideful. And purely foolish. I thought back to a similar situation at that one Fourth of July picnic. My confidence—no, my pride—had landed me in the same kind of predicament. And in that instance, the batter had won the day. Then it had been for fun; this time a part of my dream was at stake.

  Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If I didn’t manage to throw a strike with this last pitch, I would at the very least give my ragtag audience a good show. The snake ball was my own little invention. Charlie couldn’t hit it. Most of the time. If this had been a real game, any sensible catcher would’ve called me off this decision. But there was no sensible catcher, only an elevator boy. And my own fool self.

  Here is what I did: shifted the ball so that the seams rested crossways against my fingers. Rolled back my shoulders and took a deep breath. Cast a hard look in Gill’s direction. Then I let the ball fly. It slithered out of my hand and hissed through the air.

  Gill never saw it.

  “Strike three!” Ace clapped his leg. “If that don’t beat all!”

  There were a few cheers for me and a few slaps on Gill’s back. He walked out to the “mound” and stuck out his hand. “I can’t say I enjoyed having a girl strike me out, but well done.”

  I toned my grin down to a modest smile and shook. “You’re a good sport, Gill,” I told him. The elevator boy reclaimed his precious glove and the crowd dispersed. I’d worked up some heat with the exercise. Even though it might be true that “horses sweat, men perspire, but ladies merely glow,” I’d gone well beyond glowing. I fanned myself and moved inside to get a drink of water.

  Mr. Monson caught me on my way to the ladies’ room. “I guess you have yourself an assignment,” he said. “Earned fair and square.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ace dropped two Seals tickets in my hand. I knew exactly who I’d ask to be my companion. I owed it to him. Even though Ned insisted on buying the peanuts and soda, we had a wonderful afternoon. I felt quite the real reporter with my notepad propped on my knees, taking notes. It turns
out that Ned was no baseball fan, but I assured him I wouldn’t hold it against him. Much.

  • • •

  The San Francisco Nine Rout Portland

  By DORA DEAN

  Baseball is a true equalizer of men. Where else does the banker share a wooden bleacher with a newsboy, a preacher with a police officer, a lawyer with a longshoreman? And where else but at the new Old Rec Park can Dora Dean and her fellow females be accepted as one of the crowd?

  Maude stopped reading aloud, marking her place with a finger. “You’re going to need to start a scrapbook. Ned says this is four whole column inches. Not bad for a novice!”

  “Notice that it’s hidden on the last page of the sporting section.”

  “Last page is better than no page at all,” she scolded.

  “Agreed.” Though I’d done my best to persuade Mr. Monson to let me use my own name, he’d saddled me with the Dora Dean byline, a nom de plume shared by any number of Chronicle women reporters. I took the clipping from Maude. My words in print! It was a thrill, byline or no. I had miles to go before I earned the right to use my own name, like Miss D’Lacorte. But look at that! Four column inches! I was moving up in the newspaper world.

  August 4, 1919

  Dear Charlie,

  I’m not surprised that Mr. Boeing and his friend Mr. Hubbard are impressed with your work. This first promotion of yours will not be your last, I would imagine.

  Enclosed please find a clipping of my very first article in the Chronicle. Every female must pay her dues as Dora Dean or Helen White or some such. Next time, I’ll get my own byline! Regardless, I wanted you to have a copy of this story, as it was thanks to you that I got to write it.

  Your southpaw snake baller,

  Hattie

  A Bird in the Hand

  August 17, 1919

  Dear Charlie,

  Happy birthday! You are an old man of twenty now. Imagine that!

  I am in good spirits on your special day. Yesterday, Ruby and I saw the new Charlie Chaplin film. It was wonderful to hear her laugh. Plans remain in place for Pearl to come here, but the doctor advises against travel just yet. Last night, Mr. Wilkes invited me to join him and Ruby for supper at Bernstein’s Marine Grotto. Let me say with complete confidence that there will be no more oysters in my future! They must be an acquired taste, for Mr. Wilkes enjoyed a large platter of them.

  My series on Spot and her sisters has grown to include some other working girls, most introduced to me by the loquacious Spot. I had not thought about this home-front impact of the war before. It turns out that many women who joined the work world while all the men were away fighting prefer to remain. One of my favorite interviewees was Miss Katherine Rick, who works at the San Francisco Hat Company. I’d never given much thought to men’s hats before chatting with her. Her passion for her work is fairly contagious. Sadly, I am doubtful that any but my close circle of friends will ever read this piece. But hope is a thing with feathers, isn’t it?

  Speaking of which, I’ve accumulated quite the collection. Of course, Aunt Ivy would say, “Feathers don’t make a bird.” That may be so, but each time I find one, it feels as if my truest dreams are closer to having wings.

  I’d best sign off. I couldn’t let this day pass without letting you know I was thinking of you.

  Yours,

  Hattie

  My spirits were as fine as the August weather. Charlie had sent me two letters since I’d written him about the baseball game; we were back on a friendly track, and now I had a day all to myself.

  Not that I was complaining, but Ruby and I had been constant companions, holding cozy quilting bees for two at her apartment since her return from Santa Clara. We’d made great progress on Pearl’s quilt; the top was nearly all pieced. Ruby had cooked me several meals, and once sent me off to work with a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies to share with Bernice and Spot. I made a point of being available whenever she asked, as I knew my company helped divert her attention from the hole created by Pearl’s absence. Even Mr. Wilkes, the kind soul, was doing his best to distract her. They had dined together a handful of times in the past two weeks.

  My dance card for the day was completely empty, and that suited me fine. There was some washing and correspondence to catch up on, and my daily reading of the paper from cover to cover as part of my self-taught journalism course, but what I was most looking forward to was finishing my working women series.

  After a hot-plate lunch of soup and crackers, I flipped open the journal Miss Clare had given me, tapping pencil against the page as I reread the opening sentence. It was giving me fits. “Among the various forms of employment that enlist the activity of San Francisco’s young women, Miss Katherine Ricks believes that few are more fascinating than that to which she gives her attention.” A reporter lived and died by the lead and the one I’d written was as lively as liverwurst.

  What had I been thinking? I munched another cracker. Maybe the problem was that I was trying to write like some big shot instead of writing like plain old Hattie Brooks. I threw myself forward, head on the desk. My brain was as dry as a summer field. A few taps of my noggin on the hard surface did nothing to shake loose any ideas.

  It had never been this difficult to write my Honyocker’s Homilies. Maybe it was because they’d started out as letters to Uncle Holt; I’d had no idea he would pass them on to his friend Mr. Miltenberger, the editor of the Arlington News. When I’d written them, it was as if we’d been sitting on the front porch of an evening, chatting about the day’s events. Maybe I should try to imagine writing this article for Uncle Holt. Or Perilee. Or Charlie.

  I pushed myself upright and drew a thick black line through that awful sentence. How would I explain what I’d learned from Spot’s sisters and their friends? I shifted my gaze around my room, desperately seeking inspiration. My eyes stopped at my desktop feather bouquet, and I thought about the birds to whom these had once belonged. They never fretted. They simply spread their wings and soared. Why couldn’t my words do that as well?

  Wait. Spreading one’s wings. That was the gist of the stories I’d heard. Some of those girls hadn’t even wanted to work initially, but had done so out of patriotic feelings, for the war effort. But once they’d gone to work, they’d found they rather liked it. And now that the war was over, a choir of male voices clamored against them, saying that what they were doing wasn’t right.

  I picked up my pen and scribbled down the sentence that popped into my brain. “Miss Tinny McLeary sought her starched nurse’s cap and uniform out of patriotic duty, but taking it from her now that the war is over would be akin to clipping the wings of a free-flying osprey.”

  A shiver of pleasure wriggled down my spine as I inked in the period of that sentence. Now, this was a lead I could feel proud of. Of course, revising the lead meant revising the rest of the article. But the time flew by as I scratched words out here and inserted phrases there. I do believe the building could have fallen down right around me and I would not have noticed. It was me and the page and nothing else. No wonder Ned loved his job so! This pushing and pulling at words was exhilarating. I sat back, rereading my efforts. In this moment, it didn’t matter that no other eyes might see what I’d written. It felt that good simply to have composed something fine. A story worthy of its subjects.

  An idea tapped at the back of my brain. Mr. Monson had given me an old typewriter to use for my baseball story, the one on the desk in the back corner. The h key didn’t work and the carriage return was stiff, but being as I was a hunt-and-peck typist, it suited me fine. I would type up a copy of my article for each of the girls I’d interviewed. A small token of goodwill for their time. I’d start on it after my shift on Monday.

  Someone rapped at my door. Dum da-da dum dum, dum dum. That was Maude’s “shave and a haircut” knock. I opened the door.

  “It’s too lovely to stay inside.” Maude was dressed in white eyelet, with matching parasol. She looked like a vanilla ice cream cone.

&
nbsp; “I have some washing out to do,” I told her.

  “Nonsense.” She grabbed my hand. “The Ocean Boulevard calls,” she pronounced. “And there are two very dashing young fellows eager to be our escorts.”

  “Two?” I asked. I was certain that one was Maude’s new beau, Orson.

  “Questions later.”

  “At least let me get my hat.” I selected my old hat, not as chic as my cloche but with a wider brim against the sun and salt air.

  As promised, there were two young men awaiting us in the lobby. Orson, as I had guessed, and Ned.

  “Miss Brooks.” Ned tipped his hat to me. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  I made a face. “More like a sore sight.” Even if Maude and I exchanged outfits, she would outshine me.

  “Tut, tut.” Ned wagged his finger. “Here is how a lady accepts a compliment: she says thank you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, adding, “but I don’t know about the lady part.”

  “She’s hopeless,” Ned said to his sister.

  “But that’s why you are so mad for her,” Maude teased. At least, I hoped it was a tease.

  Orson was the proud owner of a brand-new Nash Touring Car, so we hopped in for the ride. He was soon expertly parking it in front of Benson’s Pool Hall, in a great row of other automobiles. Ned offered his hand to help me out of the car, but I stopped mid-exit. “Oh, smell that!” I wasn’t sure I would ever get enough of that briny air, scented with fish and seaweed and adventure. I turned to Maude. “This was a wonderful idea. Thank you.”

  She winked. “Thank Ned.” Then she grabbed Orson’s arm. “Buy me an ice cream,” she said, and off they went.

  “Do you care for anything, Hattie?” Ned asked.

  I shook my head. “Just a walk. It’s so glorious.” We began to stroll the boulevard adjacent to the beach. “You’ll laugh, but before I’d seen the ocean, I thought it must look like a flax field in bloom.” I looked off across the dunes to the sea. “They’re not at all alike. Both beautiful, of course. But not alike.”

  “Do you miss it?” Ned asked. “Do you want to return?”