by Renée Rosen
“Come here, kid. What’s this piece all about?” She held up the copy for me to see. “The first human trials for a female contraceptive?”
“It’s an article about Margaret Sanger and—”
“Yes, I can see that.” Mrs. Angelo pursed her lips. “Mr. Pearson said you submitted it to him earlier this morning.”
“I was—”
“Why would you take it upon yourself to write an article like that without discussing it with me first? Or Mr. Pearson, for that matter.”
“Because I knew you probably wouldn’t have let me write it.”
“And you would have been correct.” She fisted up the copy in her hand and pitched it in the wastebasket. “From now on stick to the assignments you’re given. Understood?”
“But this is important. We’re on the verge of a major breakthrough for women.”
“Uh-huh . . .” She left her desk with me trailing behind her down the center aisle.
“And I bet most women don’t even know that this is possible.”
She spun around. “I’m only going to say this to you once more—I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I get it. I do. But you’re paid to write about subjects that you’re assigned to, and right now that’s taffeta and calla lilies. Not contraception, kid.”
Henry, Walter and the others laughed while Mrs. Angelo reprimanded me.
“Hey, Walsh,” said Walter with a snort as I made my way back to my desk, “how’s that calla lily exposé coming along?”
“Why don’t you take your little Playboy into the men’s room and do something useful with yourself.”
“Whoa!” Henry pounded his fist against the desk and laughed along with Benny, Randy and the rest of them. Even though I was disappointed that Mrs. Angelo killed my article, I joined in, knowing that the guys got a kick out of me. They weren’t used to working with a woman who could take her share of razzing and dish it back.
I glanced up at the row of clocks over the horseshoe. It was half past four and I was beat. It had been a long week. I was putting the cover over my typewriter when M came up to my desk. Her butterfly-rimmed sunglasses were propped on her nose, and her Kelly bag, which must have cost a small fortune, was hanging off her forearm just above her charm bracelet. She looked very Marilyn-like.
“Come on,” she said. “I think you and I could use a cocktail.”
• • •
We headed over to Riccardo’s, a bar near the Tribune, tucked away behind the Wrigley Building, down the stairs on Rush Street. Riccardo’s was a legendary watering hole. From as far back as my father’s day, it was where the newspapermen went for lunch and for drinks after work. A lot of advertising types went there, too, which made for an interesting dynamic because everyone knew that the copywriters made more money than the reporters but that the reporters were better writers and worked harder. So the ad guys stayed on one side of the bar and the reporters on the other.
I remember my father telling my brother and me stories about Riccardo’s back in the days of Prohibition, when it was a speakeasy. He and Ben Hecht used to sit at the back table and have their martinis and shoot the bull. When Eliot started working at the Sun-Times, he and his buddies went to Riccardo’s, too. It was a journalistic rite of passage.
Now it was my turn to join the newspaper drinking tradition, only I was a woman and my male coworkers didn’t see me as a real reporter. I’d been working alongside them for the past two months and they knew damn well that I was tougher than the typical sob sister. They knew I’d been around a city room all my life. But still, I was a girl, assigned to society news and therefore relegated to a table with the other female journalists while the guys sat at the bar, backs turned as if they hardly knew us.
M, Gabby and the others paid them no mind. They were engrossed in their own conversations, talking about plans for the weekend. We were sitting with Eppie Lederer and some other girls from the Sun-Times.
Eppie wrote an advice column. Millions of women read her faithfully, but when it came to us, her friends, she rarely offered an opinion. You’d ask her about a specific concern—maybe you were having problems with your fellow or you were in a jam at work—and she’d look at you and say, “How the hell would I know what you should do?”
“Because you’re Ann Landers!”
“Only on paper.”
Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Copeland came inside and brushed past us on their way to the bar. M excused herself, and on her way to the ladies’ room, she got detoured. I watched as she stood before the men at the bar, hip jutting out, laughing, basking in their attention.
No sooner had she returned to our table and placed a cigarette in her mouth than one of the ad guys swooped in from across the room and offered her a light. She thanked him with a long, luxurious exhale and a smile. He snapped his Zippo shut and stood there, waiting for an invitation to join her, but she dismissed him with another cool exhale.
It was going on seven o’clock and Eppie, Gabby—who rarely stayed for more than one drink—and the other girls had already left. I was about to go myself when M asked me to stay for one more.
“Please? Just one.”
She seemed lonely, and I was surprised that a beautiful woman like her wouldn’t have had a date on a Friday night. Certainly enough men at Riccardo’s would have loved to take her out. I sat back down and ordered another vodka tonic.
“So what are you doing this weekend?” she asked.
“I have to go interview an anthropologist down at the University of Chicago for a story I’m working on.”
“You never stop. You really love this business, don’t you?” M said, giving her drink a swirl.
“Don’t you?”
“Nah, not like you. I’ve been at the Tribune for five years—that’s four and half years longer than I expected. I started out as a copygirl, and that’s only because Mrs. Angelo took pity on me. She was standing behind me one day at Logan’s Luncheonette and I came up ten cents short on my check. She gave me a dime and a job. I had just moved here from Milwaukee after my father died. I was lost without him. I couldn’t stay back home with my mother. She was insane. When I was little she used to chase me around the house with a broom, swatting me with it. My father was the only one who could keep her in line. He protected me from her, and once he was gone, I had to leave too. So I came to Chicago—didn’t know anyone. I was flat broke when I met Mrs. Angelo. . . .”
M continued talking, but I was stuck on after my father died. Hadn’t she told me that her father was the one who’d rented her apartment for her?
“. . . I never thought I’d become a journalist,” M was saying. “Never wanted to be one. I really thought I’d be married and raising a family by now.” She smiled with a certain sadness in her gaze.
I wanted to say something about her apartment but Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Copeland stopped at our table.
“Good night, ladies,” said Mr. Ellsworth with a tip of his fedora.
“See you Monday morning,” said Mr. Copeland.
“My goodness,” I said as they walked away. “They actually acknowledged us. Do you believe it?”
“Aw, the two of them are okay.” M watched as they left, her eyes trained on the door long after they’d gone.
Before I could steer the conversation back to her apartment, M excused herself to talk to a table of cigar-smoking men from Leo Burnett and I found myself sitting alone. A few seats opened up at the bar, so I dared to join Walter, Henry, Benny, Peter and Randy, saddling up beside them. They gave me an amused nod, as if to say, Isn’t she cute, and went back to their conversation.
At one point Walter turned to me and said, “You really want to be one of the boys—don’t you, Walsh? How about doing a shot with us?”
The others leaned in, watching me, expecting me to refuse.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
Walter snickered as he packed tobacco into his pipe, tamping it down. “Johnny,” he called over to the bartender. “A round of Canadian
Club over here.” Walter struck a matchstick and set his bowl flaming before extinguishing the blue tip with a shake of his wrist.
The bartender poured six shot glasses of whiskey and dealt them out like a hand of cards. The others laughed, thinking I’d pack up my handbag and head home. But this was my moment to prove that I was as tough as any of them. I picked up my shot, clanked my glass against theirs, and with my eyes locked onto Walter’s, I threw it back. The heat spread through my chest while the vapors rose up to my sinuses. I felt the burn of the whiskey behind my eyes. The others watched me, waiting, expecting me to cough, to wince, to grimace. Instead, I slammed my empty glass on the bar and said, “Johnny, set ’em up again.”
“Holy Christ,” said Henry.
There was a burst of laughter.
“Ehhhx-cellent,” said Peter.
“Now you’re talking.” Randy scooted up closer to the bar.
“I’m serious,” I said, still looking at Walter. “Set ’em up.”
There was a round of howls as they clapped, and Henry signaled to the bartender for the bottle. We all held up our next shot, did a toast and knocked them back. The second shot went down easier. I had just set my glass down and barely gotten a cigarette lit before Benny called for a third round.
We took our time with that one. I got lost in clouds of cigarette smoke. The jukebox was stuck on Mr. Sandman, playing it over and over again. I had no idea who ordered the next round, but before I knew it, half the men at the bar had gathered around us, eager to see if the little lady could keep up. Apparently the gauntlet had been thrown.
I became vaguely aware of a man, about my age, standing behind me. He leaned over and touched my shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
“Oh, yes, I do.” I turned and looked into his eyes, blue-green and drooping slightly at the outer corners.
I was woozy and could tell that the shots were getting to the fellows, too. They eyed me, trying to see if I was weakening, getting ready to cave.
“Another round,” I said. “On me.”
Onlookers banged on the bar top, making their drinks jump while chanting, “Go, go, go. . . .” I could feel the whiskey churning in my stomach. I didn’t think it was possible to down another shot, but I had to. If I couldn’t keep up with them, they’d never let me live it down. So I drew a deep breath and took the next shot. When I turned the glass over, the others cheered, applauding.
I was prepared to have another go at it when Walter stood up, peeled off a few bills from his money clip and said, “It’s getting late.”
“Aw, c’mon,” said Benny, swaying on his stool. “One more.”
Walter didn’t take his eyes off me. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or insulted. “I’ve got dinner waiting at home.” He dropped his money onto the bar and left without so much as a good-bye.
Henry and Peter followed shortly after, and the crowd began to disperse. I stayed at the bar, trying to get my bearings, and the guy who’d been standing behind me earlier ended up on the stool next to me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of papers, one of which dropped to the floor. Amazingly, despite being drunk, I managed to bend down and retrieve it.
“Here you go.” I handed it back to him. It was covered in scribbles, front and back. “You dropped this.”
He thanked me, deliberately letting his fingertips brush against mine. He caught my eye and smiled, exposing two imperfect front teeth, both slightly turned inward. Maybe it was the whiskey shots, but I found him more attractive than he had been just moments before. He sorted through the napkins and scraps of paper, lining them up on the bar. When he drew a heavy sigh, I looked over again. There was something about him, the sort of thing that snuck up on you. He was not the kind of man you looked twice at, and yet I did. I did look twice, because he’d put his hand on my shoulder while I was doing shots and because he had sighed again. Louder this time.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
He held up a scrap of paper. “I can’t read my own damn handwriting. Is that an f or a t?”
I tilted my head and scanned his scribbles. It didn’t look like either one to me. “I don’t know. But you spelled gubernatorial wrong. It’s with an e, not an a.” I pointed out his error.
He looked over at me and flashed his imperfect smile. “How can you spell after you just drank those guys under the table?”
“Aw, years of practice.” I grinned and propped my chin on the heel of my hand.
Benny came over and tapped me on the shoulder. “Want me to walk you home?”
I glanced back at the man next to me. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around for a little while.”
Benny looked at the man and stepped in between us, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, “You’ve had a lot to drink. You should really let me take you home.”
I smiled and patted Benny’s boyish, freckled face. “Don’t you worry. I’m a big girl.”
Benny nodded and reluctantly went back to his seat.
“He’s mighty protective of you.”
“Oh, that’s just Benny.”
“I think he has a little crush on you.”
“No. You think?” I glanced back at Benny, who was still looking my way, a hopeful smile surfacing on his face.
“He’s got good taste,” said the man. “You’re the prettiest woman in this bar.”
I laughed. “Even prettier than ol’ Marilyn over there?” I gestured over at M.
“Is that who she’s supposed to be? I’ve seen her in here before and I’ve always wondered.”
“Watch it. She’s my coworker. And my friend.”
He laughed and squinted at me, as if trying to size me up. “Who exactly are you anyway?”
“Jordan Walsh.”
“I’m Jack. Jack Casey.” He held out his hand. “I’m with the Sun-Times.”
“I’m over at the Tribune.”
“What do you do there, Jordan Walsh?”
“I write for society news. And do a few features. And you can stop right there,” I said, holding up my hand. “It’s temporary. I’m going to get on the city desk if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Well, then, here’s to the city desk.” He raised his glass to me.
About forty-five minutes later M left with one of the Leo Burnett guys, and Peter, Randy and Benny left, too. Though Benny did make one last plea to see me home.
Jack reached over for a lock of my hair, rolling the strands between his thumb and index finger. “I’m starving,” he said. “Are you starving?”
“Food?” I smiled. That was all I could do.
I don’t remember much after that other than walking out of Riccardo’s with Jack helping me up the stairwell. We ended up at a greasy joint at State and Lake, where we had burgers and ate french fries off each other’s plates. He fed coins into the jukebox, and we listened to the music he selected: Rock Around the Clock, Maybelline, Blue Velvet. As we lingered over coffee I began to sober up.
Jack was a talkative guy and volunteered all kinds of information about himself. He was raised in a strict Irish-Catholic family. His father was a judge. His mother took care of his five younger brothers.
“Six children?” I couldn’t imagine. “That’s a big family.”
“And that’s not counting the cousins and aunts and uncles. My father had six brothers and sisters and my mom had seven. Relatives are always dropping by my parents’ house. You never know who’s going to turn up for dinner.”
“And your mother’s okay with that?”
“Are you kidding me? She loves it. You should see her around the holidays. My folks will have fifty or sixty people over for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
I set my coffee cup down. I was jealous. Or maybe it was more a sense of longing I was feeling. The last time we celebrated a holiday with my relatives was before Eliot was killed. Not surprising that my grandfather had a problem with our Christmas
tree. You can see the scowl running across his face in the pictures we took that year. He and my father sat at opposite ends of the table, arguing about the nuclear bomb tests in Nevada. They were both opposed to the testing but still they had managed to turn it into an argument. That was two years ago, and now my parents didn’t even bother with the holidays. We tried the first year. My grandparents arrived from New York and left the next day after a blowup with my father. In the meantime my mother had brought out the menorah that we never lit and my father had hauled a tree home that we never trimmed. I remember it stood untouched in the corner, bound in twine, slumped up against the wall, its pine needles dropping to the floor until we threw it out sometime in January.
“And what about you?” Jack asked. “What about your family? You’re Irish-Catholic, too.”
I didn’t want to get into religion with him. I dragged a cold fry through a pool of ketchup, stalling. “My parents are both writers,” I said.
“Really?” I could tell he was impressed.
I nodded. “My mother’s a poet. My father’s a novelist.”
“Would I know their work? What are their names?”
When I told him, his eyes went wide. “Hank Walsh? The reporter?”
“Yep.”
“That’s your father? I didn’t know he was a novelist.”
“He’s working on a new book now.”
“And your mother is CeeCee Walsh? I can’t believe it. I used to date a girl who was obsessed with her poetry. She wanted to study with your mother at Columbia College but then she stopped teaching. She must be a fascinating woman.”
“She’s definitely not your typical mother type.”
“I’ll bet. And what about brothers? Sisters?”
I shook my head. “No.” It was true. I had no brothers or sisters, so I wasn’t lying. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him about Eliot. Jack must have been new at the Sun-Times. Otherwise he would have made the connection and figured out that Eliot was my brother. And if I told him that Eliot was dead, he’d have questions that I wasn’t up to answering. No, a dead brother didn’t make for good first-date conversation. That was, if this was even a date that we were on.
