On the Trail of the Truth

by Michael Phillips

  Almeda had always gotten the newspapers from Sacramento and San Francisco, besides Mr. Singleton’s Gazette. But now that I was writing for them, I was more interested than I used to be, and the minute the stagecoach arrived in town at between two and four every afternoon, I’d be out of the office and on my way over to the depot to get whatever mail there was for Parrish Freight and our newspapers. On most days I spent the next ten or fifteen minutes looking over the paper, seeing what other reporters were writing about, getting ideas, reading some of the news. Then usually at night Pa and Almeda and I would pass the paper around until we all three had read every word.

  The day of August 8 is a day I will always remember. At about four-thirty in the afternoon, I was sitting down in the freight office, scanning through the copy of the Alta that had arrived about an hour before on the stage. Mostly it was full of election news. There were quotes from a speech Mr. Buchanan had made in Philadelphia, and a lot about Mr. Fremont, including two long editorials. He had been campaigning all through the East, but news of his travels and the issues surrounding the election continued to make daily news in California. The slavery situation, events in Kansas, the question of Fremont’s religion had all contributed to heated debate and discussion, as well as legal battles involving title to Fremont’s Mariposa estate down in the foothills east of Merced. There was a short article entitled “Fremont Estate Embroiled in Campaign Controversy,” though I didn’t stop to take time to read it.

  A few moments later my eyes fell on a small article on the bottom of page four. When I read the caption, my pulse quickened. There was no way they could have gotten my article into print this soon, yet there were the words in bold black type: “Woman Pioneer Seeks Office in State of Pioneers.”

  Hastily my eyes found the small print of the article and began to read:

  The place is Miracle Springs, foothills mining town some seventy miles north of Sacramento on a tributary of the Yuba River. The occasion: an election for mayor between two of the area’s most prominent citizens and members of the business community—one, the town’s only banker; the other, the owner of one of the largest mining supply and freight companies in the northern foothills.

  What makes this an election that many observers will be watching with interest, however, is that it pits a woman—who cannot even vote in the election—against a man of great influence in the community.

  I couldn’t believe it! This wasn’t my article, but it might as well have been—all the information was the same!

  With my heart pounding, I read on:

  According to research done by this reporter, the Miracle Springs mayor’s race marks one of the very few times a woman has sought higher public office in these United States, and never has a woman held office west of the plains. It should prove a groundbreaking election insofar as the future of this great state of California is concerned.

  Almeda Parrish Hollister, owner of Parrish Mine and Freight Company and recently married to one of the town’s miners, has thrown her hat into the ring against Franklin Royce, Miracle Springs’ only banker and financier.

  There were three more paragraphs telling a little about Miracle Springs itself, and then a brief background of Mr. Royce and Almeda and their businesses and how they had come to California, with the final sentences: “Experts interviewed for the purpose of this article give Mrs. Hollister no chance to win the election. They say that besides the disadvantage of being a woman, she has taken on a man owed too many favors by too many people. But just the fact that she is in the race is of interest in its own right.”

  If those words weren’t enough to make me downright furious, those immediately below them were:

  Reported by Robin T. O’Flaridy, staff reporter for the California Alta.

  I threw the paper down and jumped to my feet. How could he do this to me? The rat!

  And what about Mr. Kemble? He had no right! Why, they’d stolen my ideas, my words! And if Mr. Kemble wasn’t in on it, how did Robin ever get his hands on my article in the first place? They must have done it together! It wasn’t so much losing the dollar. They’d taken my idea—and even used some of my exact words. And then, most of all, they put Robin’s name under them!

  I was so angry I would have clobbered Robin if he had been there! I knew why he’d done it. He wanted to get even with me for the incident over the dinner and the flowers. He was paying me back for making him feel foolish.

  Well, Mr. O’Flaridy, I thought to myself, thinking up all kinds of things I could do to him in return to get revenge, we’ll just see who gets the last laugh!

  I fumed around the streets of town, my brain reeling back and forth, not even stopping to think about whether my anger was right or wrong, not once thinking about God or what he might think. All I could think about was Robin O’Flaridy and how I could fix him!

  And what made it even worse was that his article was better than mine. I couldn’t stand to admit it, but he was a better writer!

  I don’t know how I spent the rest of the day. I think I walked around town a while longer—but for sure this walk wasn’t one I spent in prayer! I must have gone back to the office, but whether I did any more work, I can’t remember. I was just so mad!

  By evening I had cooled down. In fact, I was embarrassed at myself and had to go outside for a while alone to talk to God a little about it. I told him I was sorry for getting so angry, because I knew it wasn’t right. I’d been thinking so much recently on being true and everything that truth involved. I suppose that’s what vexed me so much about what they had done—that they weren’t being truthful at all, not to the people reading their paper or to me. But after a while I realized I had no business thinking about whether other people were truthful or not. There was only one person I had the right to criticize for not being truthful, and that was me. It was none of my affair what Robin O’Flaridy did about living honestly and doing things right. But what I did—that was my affair!

  I walked around a while and thought and prayed. But when I went back inside I still didn’t have everything figured out.

  We talked about it, and Pa said something that helped me see a little more inside the situation. I had just told him and Almeda about realizing that I had to take care of myself and whether I did the right thing, rather than criticizing others for what they did.

  “That’s right, Corrie,” Pa said. “One of the biggest things about growing up is to take responsibility for yourself without forever blaming other folks for everything that you don’t like. That’s something me and your Uncle Nick’s had to learn—and sometimes the hard way. It still ain’t easy for Nick, who gets to blaming your grandpa for things he done. And I used to blame Nick for things that I later had to face up to myself. Blame’s a terrible thing, Corrie. A mind that’s set to blame other folks all the time is eventually gonna destroy any chance of setting things right, ’cause all it’s doing is looking at everything that’s wrong.”

  He stopped for a minute and gave the log in the fireplace a poke with a stick.

  “But on the other hand, Corrie, if you’re gonna write for this man Kemble, and you’re gonna work for his newspaper, then you gotta be able to trust him, and you gotta know where you stand. It’s a sight different than blaming a fella when you try to get your business dealings straight so you know what’s up and what’s down. If I’m gonna have some kind of a deal going with your uncle or Alkali or if I walk into Royce’s bank and say I want to borrow some money, then there ain’t nothing wrong with saying, ‘Now, Nick, here’s what you gotta do, and here’s what I gotta do, and since we’re both men of our word, then we’ll do what we say. Then we shake hands and agree on it, and that’s that. Or I might say, ‘Now, Mr. Royce, I don’t exactly like you, but I want to borrow some money. How much’ll it cost?’ And then he might say, ‘I don’t like you either, Hollister, and I don’t like your wife running for mayor against me, but if you want to borrow money, it’ll cost you 6 percent.’ Then if it’s agreeable, we shake hands and that’s
the deal. We don’t have to like each other, but everybody’s got to know where everybody else stands, otherwise you can’t do business together.”

  He stopped, and I waited for more. But he was finished.

  “Is that all, Pa?” I asked. “What is it you think I ought to do now?”

  Almeda, who had been listening to everything, laughed.

  “In his wonderful roundabout way,” she said, “I think your father’s been trying to tell you that even though you may have to get over your anger and blaming, you still have to find out where you stand and why they did what they did. Otherwise, how can you go on writing for the Alta?”

  “Maybe it ain’t as bad as it looks, Corrie,” added Pa. “Are you sure it’s your article?”

  “Some of the exact words, Pa. I told you about the pioneer in a state full of pioneers.”

  “And you and Kemble had a deal for the article.”

  “Well, we didn’t shake hands that I can remember,” I said, “but he told me he’d pay me a dollar each for three articles on the election.”

  Pa shrugged, and nodded his head thoughtfully.

  “It sounds to me, Corrie Belle, reporter of the Mother Lode, that you need to get some things straight with your editor,” said Almeda.

  I gazed into her earnest face, and realized she was right. I let out a deep sigh, then got up and went into my room, where I sat down and immediately began a letter to San Francisco.

  “Dear Mr. Kemble,” I began. “I have to admit I was given a considerable surprise when I opened the copy of the Alta that arrived in Miracle Springs this afternoon. . . .”

  I then went on to ask all the questions that were on my mind, as nicely as I could, though I did ask him right out if he’d let Robin put his name on my article—and if not, then how was it that I found some of my very words appearing in the paper?

  It was a long letter, but I finally got everything said I wanted to say. Once I’d done it I felt a lot better. For a writer, getting your thoughts said to somebody—even if it’s just on paper—is always a great feeling of relief. I wondered if I ought to send it at all—this might be the last I’d ever hear from Mr. Kemble. But like Pa said, I had to know how things stood if I wanted to keep having dealings with him.

  The letter went south on the next morning’s stage.

  Chapter 30

  Mr. Kemble’s Reply

  The next five days were torture!

  I knew I couldn’t possibly hear anything back from Mr. Kemble for at least six days, yet even on the fifth day I couldn’t help being there to meet the stage and frantically looking through the mail.

  During that time I must have wished I had the letter back a thousand times. What an idiot I was! I kept saying to myself. He’s never going to print another thing I write! He’s never going to even answer my letter!

  But that didn’t keep me from meeting the stage every day.

  I tried to do my work and to keep up with my interviews about the election just in case I got another chance with the series. But I was so distracted I finally just gave up.

  On the eighth day, the seventeenth of August, there among the rest of the mail was an envelope with the return address: The California Alta, Montgomery Street, San Francisco, California.

  I grabbed it and ran off down the street. I had to be alone. I was so afraid of what might be inside that envelope!

  Finally I wound up inside the livery of the Freight Company, up in the loft. No one was around, and the silence and smells calmed me down like they always did. At home the barn was still one of my favorite places.

  I took several deep breaths, then looked down at the envelope in my hands. My fingers were shaking. My whole future as a writer might be at stake. It might even be over already.

  Finally I scratched off an edge of the stuck-down part, then jammed a finger through and tore the top off the envelope. Then I reached inside with two fingers and pulled out the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:

  Dear Miss Hollister,

  Your letter raises some interesting questions.

  First, you said you thought we had a deal about you writing on the Miracle Springs election. But we had no such “deal.” I said I’d pay you a buck a piece if you sent me something acceptable. But at the time in question I hadn’t seen a word from you yet. And time was wasting! We are a newspaper. People buy the Alta to read news.

  In the meantime, O’Flaridy came to me with a legitimate news article. He’d researched it in our files and the limited library we have here at the Alta and it was a decently done bit of writing. What am I to do, turn it down? I’m an editor, he’s a reporter; he brought me news, I printed the story. It’s as simple as that.

  Face it, Miss Hollister, he scooped you on this one. You may not like it. Maybe it doesn’t seem fair. But then nobody ever accused the newspaper business of being fair in the first place. And maybe that’s why you don’t see too many female reporters. It’s a tough business, and the reporter who gets the goods gets published. There’s no place in this business for feminine emotions and for getting your feelings hurt. Talk is cheap. If you don’t deliver, you get left holding the paper and reading it, while somebody else does the writing and reporting.

  Now as to your chief complaint, the O’Flaridy article was set to go before I received yours in the mail. He did not take a word of yours. You can trust me on that. I would never condone such a thing. If I’m tough, you’ll also find me a fair man. The title for his piece was taken from your words. That was my doing. It was a clever phrase that caught my eye and I would have written you acknowledging the fact except that your letter beat me to it. I apologize if I overstepped my bounds. I will make it up to you in the future.

  As to your question about pay, I gave O’Flaridy $4 for the article. It was solid news, and before you think of complaining, remember that he’s a young man with plenty of experience that you don’t have. That’s why he’s on our staff and why I offer him a bonus incentive like this one for bringing me something in addition to his regular assignments. If you think it’s unfair, remember, this is a man’s business. If you don’t like the offers I make to you, then take your writing elsewhere.

  Now to something more serious on my side. Given the false impression you gave initially over the whole business about the C.B. name, I do not feel that the payment I offered you is unfair, since you are a woman. But it does not seem you have learned your lesson about false impressions! Robin tells me this woman running for mayor is no longer Mrs. Parrish as you told me, but rather Mrs. Hollister, and none other than your own stepmother. I must tell you, Miss Hollister, I was highly annoyed when I learned that fact. You should have been clear on that point up front. It could look like you were attempting to further the campaign of your stepmother rather than to carry out objective news writing. That fact did, I must confess, contribute to my decision to run Robin’s story.

  We have a term in this business called “conflict of interest,” and it looks to me as if you have landed yourself squarely in the middle of it. How do you possibly expect to remain objective and unbiased in writing about an election of which you are such an intrinsic part?

  My first inclination was to withdraw any and all commitments and cancel all plans to publish anything else of yours, including the two prior ones I am still holding. But upon further thought I realized you may not have intentionally tried to deceive me. Thus, I have decided to keep an open mind, and if you present me with anything publishable on the election, I will run it as per our one dollar per article arrangement. Given the circumstances, I do not feel obliged to hold to our two-dollar “deal.” I originally offered you one dollar, and one dollar it will be. But it will have to be well-done and objective, or I will have no choice but to send it back to you.

  The two previous articles will also be run at payment of $1 each rather than the $4 stated originally. Under the circumstances, I think that is more than generous. The article received last week concerning the Royce-Hollister election, I will obviously
not be able to use.

  I remain, Miss Hollister, sincerely yours,

  Edward Kemble

  By the time I was finished reading, I was crying. Part of me couldn’t help but be outraged at Robin for “scooping” me, as Mr. Kemble had called it. He’d done it on purpose, just to spite me—I knew that. And I was angry at Mr. Kemble for talking down at me about my “feminine emotions” and my “hurt feelings.” No, it didn’t seem fair that Robin would get $4 and I only $1! The whole thing wasn’t fair!

  But then my logical mind reminded me that Robin’s article was better than mine had been. That made me mad all over again—but mad at myself, mad for being so stupid as to think I could be a writer.

  I was no writer! My writing was nothing compared to everything else in the Alta! A dollar was too much to pay for my writing.

  I thought about all the rest Mr. Kemble had said. I hadn’t meant to hold back the truth about Almeda. It just never came up about our being related. I’d never even thought about what he called a “conflict of interest.” That made me mad all over again. Mad at myself.

  I had made a mistake! I hadn’t told him the complete truth. Maybe it hadn’t been on purpose, but what difference did that make? Why should he trust me after twice giving him the wrong impression?

  I sat and cried for a long time—sad, angry, disappointed, hurt, and irritated at myself. I couldn’t help but feel like a complete fool. I had wanted to be a writer, and now I realized I wasn’t fooling anyone.

  For years I have kept Mr. Kemble’s letter. Every once in a while I get it out and read it again, because in a lot of ways—though I don’t think he intended it necessarily—Mr. Kemble’s words helped me in the growing-up process. Writing the letter to him had forced me to face a situation squarely. And his reply helped me to see for the first time what was involved in being part of the newspaper business. Although I didn’t want to admit it, Mr. Kemble was right—it was a tough business.