by Renée Rosen
I ran my finger down the first column, looking for my name, not knowing if I’d be reporting on a ribbon cutting that day or a six-car pileup. I took on whatever they threw my way, believing that each story got me closer to the city desk.
That day I was assigned another car crash, this one involving an elderly man who’d driven his car into the side of a building. The driver was pronounced dead on the scene. I went to my desk to read through the autopsy report, which said that the driver had suffered from a heart attack moments before the impact. I was always amazed by the information we got back from the coroner’s office and the forensics lab and the things they could gather from a victim’s shirt or a seemingly random piece of scrap metal. Trace evidence came in the form of everything from gunshot residue to blood-splatter analysis. It made me wonder about Eliot’s personal effects, which we’d been given the night he was killed. I imagined everything would have been blood-soaked, torn and covered in dirt and gravel from the pavement. Could those items have filled in some of the gaps of information missing from Eliot’s accident?
“Whatcha working on there, Walsh?”
I looked up, startled, thrown out of my thoughts.
Marty Sinclair was standing over my shoulder, reading as I typed. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, splaying my fingers over the page so he couldn’t see.
“C’mon, show me.”
“It’s an accident. Car hit a building. Poor driver died. I guess Benny didn’t have time to do it.”
“Well, let’s have a look.” Marty pulled up a chair. “I read your piece about the art gallery fire. It was good, but it could have been stronger.” He reached over and adjusted the carriage return so he could see the whole page.
I chewed the inside of my cheek while he read.
“See now, right here”—he pointed to the second paragraph—“you want to keep hitting the reader with the facts. Front-load it. You’re going soft on them too early. . . .”
I glanced back at him. So obvious. Of course. He was right. That’s what made him Marty Sinclair.
“Let me have another look before you turn it in,” he said as he stood up.
“Really?”
“Really.” He offered a subtle wink.
I felt anointed and very aware of Henry and Walter and some of the others overhearing this exchange.
A few days later, Marty stopped by my desk again and gave me some pointers on a story about a funeral parlor with unscrupulous burial practices. Apparently the doorway in the back of the funeral home was too narrow for the caskets to pass through, so they always turned them on their sides before loading them into the hearse. The thought of people’s deceased loved ones being tossed about like fruit salad made me sick, but as Marty said, “It makes for good copy.” The following week he helped me on another piece about a suicide jumper in the Loop.
“What’s up with you and Marty?” Randy asked one night over cocktails. “We’re starting to think he has a thing for you.”
Jack had thought that as well, but there was nothing of the sort going on. But one day, after Marty had been working with me, I did finally ask him myself.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”
“Because you’re hungry and you’re good. But”—he raised a finger—“you could be great. That’s why.” He pointed out a few more things about my piece and said, “So when are you getting married, Walsh?”
I was surprised that Marty of all people would ask me that. But then again, that was the question everyone had been asking lately. Usually I’d tell them “soon” or perhaps more accurately, “next year.”
I thought about the night Jack asked me to marry him. Despite his discovering that I wasn’t Catholic or Irish, that conversation had gotten us ahead of ourselves. Jack had said things that night that he hadn’t really thought through, and it forced our hand, accelerating everything. I loved him. I did. And I wanted to marry him. Someday. But the truth was that I wasn’t ready yet and neither was he.
We had set something in motion and there was no calling it back. This all came to me like a streak of lightning, illuminating everything for an instant before disappearing, leaving me in darkness once more. Only a vague uncertainty remained.
What I told Marty and others was that planning a wedding took time and converting to Catholicism took even more time—time that I couldn’t spare. Especially now that I was getting some real assignments and I had Marty’s support. I was making strides at work and I didn’t want to lose my momentum.
“So tell me the truth?” Marty said. It was just the two of us, huddled over our scotches, waiting for the others to join us at Riccardo’s. “You getting your fill of car crashes and gas explosions?”
I laughed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m starting to see that it really doesn’t matter if it’s a debutante ball or a five-alarm fire.”
He smiled. “The news is the news, isn’t it?”
“It’s so true. You get down the facts and your who, what, where, when and why and then you write it up.”
“Pretty much,” he said, giving the scotch a swirl in his glass. “But don’t be discouraged. There are still bigger stories out there. One day you come across a story that’s never been told, or something sticks in your craw and you want to bring it out to the public, or you want to right a wrong. When you come across a story like that, then”—he raised his glass—“then it’s a whole new ball game. That’s the kind of reporting that wins you awards and recognition and gives you the freedom to write whatever you want.”
“But how do I get those kinds of assignments in the first place?”
“You do exactly what you’re doing. Don’t wait for the assignments to come to you—you go out and find the stories yourself. Keep your eyes and ears open. And keep writing. Keep digging. You’ll get there.”
“You’ll get where?” I heard someone say. I turned around and there was Walter with the others.
Marty and I didn’t talk any more about my reporting that night, but his words stayed with me. And so, in addition to the fires and crashes, I used my spare time to cultivate my own stories.
Right away I started working on an article about female inmates in the Dwight Correctional Facility. What I’d learned so far was that behind every convicted woman there was a man to blame. One woman told me that her boyfriend brought her along on robberies because he was too fat to fit through the windows and had her crawl inside and unlock the door. Another woman told me she forged checks for her husband because he was illiterate and couldn’t do it himself. I spent nearly two weeks meeting with the inmates and writing down their stories.
People, especially M and the other ladies at work, thought I was crazy taking on extra assignments in my free time.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just hurry up and get married,” said M.
“I’m too busy right now.”
“Doing what?” M shook her head. “I don’t understand you at all sometimes. And I really don’t understand what we’re doing here.”
We were at the Berghoff on Adams near State Street. They operated a men’s-only bar, and I was working on a feature to see if they’d wait on me. It was the middle of the afternoon and the bar was fairly empty. Still, the few men sitting there scowled when they saw us, and one of them complained to the bartender who was now making his way toward us.
“They’re going to throw us out, you know,” said M.
“You’re probably right.” I sat on a barstool and patted the one next to me for M. “But if they do, that’ll make for a better story, won’t it?”
“Ladies,” the bartender said, wiping out a glass, “we only serve men here.”
“We just want to order a drink,” I said.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do it somewhere else.” He slung the towel over his shoulder and folded his arms across his chest.
“I’m Jordan Walsh with the Chicago Tribune. I’m doing a story about why you won’t serve women in this bar.”
I pulled out my notebook and pen. “Would you care to make a comment?”
“I said, we don’t serve women in here. That’s my comment. Now, I’ve asked you nicely, but if you and Blondie don’t leave quietly, I’m going to have to make you leave. You understand?”
Less than a minute later, M and I were outside on the sidewalk. It was the middle of March, and Daley had the lampposts all over downtown done up in shamrocks and green tinsel in preparation for his St. Patrick’s Day parade.
“Let’s see if there’s a side door,” I said.
“Why? They’re not going to serve you. What are you trying to do, get us arrested?”
“I’m trying to get a story.”
“Oh, Jordan, why don’t you just stop this?”
“Stop what?”
“Chasing down stories. Looking for your big break.” She reached inside her pocketbook for her compact. “You should be focused on converting and planning your wedding now. That’s what you should be doing. What are you waiting for? I swear sometimes you act like you don’t even want to get married.”
“That’s not true. I do want to get married. I just—I’m—”
“Poor Jack,” said M as we drifted away from the Berghoff. “You’re making him wait all this time. I hope he’s as patient as you think he is, because I’m warning you, one of these days you’re going to have to stop putting your job first.”
• • •
Putting my job first was something I learned when I was sixteen, before I even had a job. My parents were having one of their dinner parties. Nelson Algren was there that night with Simone de Beauvoir. He’d just published The Man with the Golden Arm, and the English version of de Beauvoir’s book The Second Sex was coming out. Mr. Algren had given a lecture at the University of Chicago earlier that evening. There was another couple there that night, along with the poet Gwendolyn Brooks.
I remember the adults were sitting around the dining room table, a haze of cigarette smoke lingering over their drinks. I said good night and went upstairs to do my homework. Eliot was away at college then. The hour was growing late, and from my room I heard the conversation below me getting louder. Algren and de Beauvoir were arguing.
“You could not even so much as mention my book tonight,” came the thick French accent. “An entire auditorium filled with people and you could not so much as mention my book!”
“And why should I have?” said Algren. “When the University of Chicago invites you to come speak, you can talk all you want about your book.”
“You’re not taking my work seriously,” de Beauvoir said. “It is men like you who are the very cause of the oppression I write about.”
The volume escalated and soon everybody was speaking over each other. Next I heard something break—sounded like glass shattering—followed by high heels coming up the stairs. A moment later my bedroom door swung open.
“Oh, pardon,” said de Beauvoir in her chic French accent, tears clouding her eyes. She was stylishly dressed with her dark hair parted in the center and pulled back in a silk turban. “I thought this was the powder room.”
I sat up straighter and put my book aside.
“It’s down the hall, Simone,” my mother said as she came up behind her, the two of them fitting neatly inside the doorframe. “Are you all right?”
De Beauvoir was very drunk and very beautiful despite the tears streaming down her cheeks. “No. I am not all right,” she said as she took a step forward and dropped down on the corner of my bed, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. “From this man I will never recover.” She was pure drama, from her words to her accent.
My mother came inside my room, and I scooted out of the way, closer toward the headboard, so she could sit beside de Beauvoir.
“You can’t let him get to you like this,” my mother said, draping her arm over de Beauvoir’s shoulder. “You know how he is. How all men are. Did you really expect him to mention your work tonight?”
When de Beauvoir raised her head, her eyes were bloodshot and the tip of her nose was red. “Men are such bastards. Selfish bastards, each and every one of them. I have two men, and they both take and take and take and give me nothing in return. It’s all me, me, me,” she said, beating her fist to her chest. “It is like I am not important. Not as important. Is he so threatened by me that he cannot give me the credit I deserve? The respect I have earned?” She paused, and her shoulders sagged, broken. “Oh, but my heart, it loves him. So I do for him whatever I can, things I didn’t even think possible. But even that is not enough. I give and I give and I give and still Nelson wants more. I lose a part of my soul each time I give my heart to him. I don’t know how to love that man without hating myself for it. I regret all that I’ve done for him and I resent him for making me abandon myself.” Her eyes flashed open wide, and she clasped a hand over her mouth just as she collapsed and sobbed into my mother’s arms.
“See what love can do?” de Beauvoir mumbled to me, her eyes growing heavy. “It can destroy. It can ruin lives. . . .”
I’d never seen a grown woman crumble like that. It frightened me to know that it was possible to feel that kind of pain. And over a man. While she went on crying, I scooted out of the way and let my mother help de Beauvoir into my bed, slipping off her shoes and pulling the covers up to her shoulders. Just before de Beauvoir passed out, my mother said something to her in French. De Beauvoir smiled sadly and nodded. “Oui, oui.”
Afterward my mother and I went down the hall to Eliot’s room, where I’d be sleeping that night. “What did you say to her?” I asked. “In French?”
“I reminded her never to put a man first. Ever.”
That conversation I’d witnessed between my mother and Simone de Beauvoir in my bedroom took place five years ago, but I was only now realizing how true her words were.
Chapter 21
• • •
In June the Caseys met with their bishop and received special permission for Jack and me to be married in the Catholic Church. After that we were off and running. A date was set: November 10, 1957. It still seemed far enough off and slightly unreal despite that the invitations were being printed and the guest lists pondered.
Around this time my mother and I went looking for dresses. We were not natural-born shoppers when it came to this sort of thing. While we could spend hours in bookstores, we usually only shopped for clothes under duress. I had dragged her along when I bought all those outfits for my new job, both of us irritated and snapping at each other by the end of the day. I remember how buying back-to-school clothes each year was an arduous task that we put off until the last minute.
This time we decided to get a head start on things and went to the bridal department at Marshall Field’s. We were such novices as we stepped off the escalator, landing in an enchanted forest of white silks, satins and taffeta. As we sorted through a rack of gowns, my mother’s attention was diverted to my blouse, peppered with ink from the newspapers I always carried under my arm.
“You’re ruining all your clothes,” she said.
“I don’t know what to do about it.” I shrugged. “It comes with the territory.”
The shopgirl patiently waited on us, bringing out a series of wedding dresses. My mother and I selected half a dozen flowing white gowns to try on, each embellished with beading and embroidery and satin and lace. Some were tea length, and some hung to the ground with mile-long trains. One dress was more glorious than the next, and soon I was standing on a riser before a three-way mirror wearing a gown that cost more than two months’ salary.
“Don’t worry about that right now,” said my mother when she saw me looking at the price tag. “I can always get Grandpa to pay for it.”
It had been more than a year since I’d seen my grandparents. They’d been aloof about my engagement, especially when they learned that, lik
e their daughter, I wasn’t marrying a Jewish boy. I wondered if they’d even bother to make the trip in for the wedding.
“You know I didn’t wear a wedding dress when your father and I got married. I didn’t even wear white. It was a powder blue suit with a sable collar. It was a Christian Dior. But it was no wedding dress. And we weren’t married in a fancy church, either.”
“Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”
“Oh, God, no. It’s just that the Caseys are making such a big deal over this.”
“Excuse me. Some would argue that a wedding is a big deal.”
“Of course it is, but did you see their guest list? They’re practically inviting the whole city.”
“And I think that’s just their relatives.”
She laughed and fluffed out the train on my dress. “There—” She came and stood beside me, and I felt absolutely giddy as she squeezed my shoulders. To see myself as a bride was both exhilarating and terrifying.
“Well?” I set my hands on my hips. “What do you think?”
“I love it.”
“I do too.” I turned to the left and then the right.
“Oh, wait a minute.” My mother frowned. “The fabric’s puckering in the back here.” She tugged on it, inching it this way and that. “Nope. It’s still doing it.”
That was enough to make us fall out of love with it.
The next dress, an ivory silk, was too low-cut.
“Oy. Can you imagine what Grandma Casey would say if she saw this?” my mother said in a mocking tone.
I laughed. “You really don’t like the Caseys, do you?”
“It’s not that I don’t like them. I actually love Jack. But those people? That mother and the granny—Oy gevalt!”
I laughed but immediately felt guilty for doing so.
By the time I’d tried on the next dress, it was getting warm inside the fitting room. The overhead lights were bouncing off the mirror, glaring back at us. The salesclerk was too persistent, repeatedly knocking on the door, asking if we needed anything else. I was getting cranky and so was my mother.
