White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

  “I’ve got the overnight polls,” I said, standing in a phone booth, covering my ear to drown out the noise on the street.

  There was a long static pause, and for a second I thought we’d lost the connection.

  “Hello? Higgs? You there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” There was another pause before he said, “Shouldn’t I be getting this information from Marty or Walter?”

  “They don’t have it yet. And I do.” I knew Marty and Walter would be good and sore at me for making this call. But I had the information, and at the end of the day, editors didn’t care who delivered the news as long as they got it. And got it first. It would have been irresponsible not to have called it in.

  “Now, take this down,” I said, switching ears. “Stevenson just picked up three more votes, so right now he’s got 690 delegates. . . . Yeah, he’s basically got it wrapped up. . . . No official word yet on Kennedy’s votes for vice president. We should have confirmation soon. But here’s the real news. Harriman’s not backing down. I know he’s only got 228 votes . . . but they say they’ve talked to Truman and they’re still in the fight. But everything indicates it’s going to Stevenson on the first ballot and—”

  “Jordan, that’s Marty calling in on the other line. I have to go.”

  “But wait—”

  “Marty’s holding for me. I—I gotta go.”

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve got something else.” I barely got the sentence out before Higgs hung up.

  I tried calling Jack after that, but there was no answer, so I went back into the amphitheater and waited for Mrs. Bernice McCray and the Roll Call of States. Meanwhile, I spoke with more delegates and the campaign and press secretaries.

  Later that day I bumped into Marty and could tell right away he was upset with me.

  “I thought I told you to watch how you went about this,” he said.

  “Marty, I had the information. I had to call it in.”

  He planted his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been good to you, Walsh.”

  “Of course you have, and I really appreciate—”

  “I don’t give a goddamn what you do to Walter, but don’t think you can waltz in here and try to show me up.”

  “I would never. Honest. That’s not what I’m—”

  “I’m a nice guy, Walsh, but if you ever go behind my back again, I’ll mop the goddamn floor with you.”

  “Marty—”

  “We’re done here.” He adjusted his hat, turned and walked away.

  I called after him, but he kept walking, disappearing into the crowd. I was thrown off-balance after that. I felt stunned and misunderstood. I hadn’t done it as a personal affront to Marty, just as a means to help myself.

  I stopped into a café for a cup of coffee and a smoke, hoping to shake it off. It was crowded inside, and I got one of the last seats at the counter. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone and stared into my steaming cup as if there were something there to see, like tea leaves, perhaps. I took a sip of coffee. It burned a hole in my gut.

  When I returned to the convention hall, I saw Marty again. He had his thick glasses propped up on his forehead while he jotted down some notes. I sheepishly wandered over to him. “I’m really sorry about what happened earlier.”

  “Aw, shrug it off, Walsh. Shrug it off.” He smiled and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You know me. I don’t stay mad for long. But watch yourself. The others won’t be as forgiving.”

  And that was it. He seemed fine again. Normal. All was well and I was relieved. After that I was able to concentrate and finish the interview with the governor’s secretary. It was getting late, but knowing I had Marty back on my side, I took a chance and went over to Stevenson’s law office on LaSalle. I thought it was an ingenious move, and apparently I wasn’t alone. There was a handful of reporters already standing around in the lobby, hoping to get information from his campaign manager or his press secretary. I figured that if I ran into Marty or Walter there, I’d offer to team up with them.

  The hour grew later, and one by one the other reporters drifted home or to their hotel rooms. I toughed it out mostly because it was raining again, coming down hard in sideways sheets, and I’d left my umbrella back at the amphitheater. I didn’t want to stand in the downpour trying to hail a cab along with every other stranded Chicagoan, so I sat on a hard wooden bench and waited it out. That was really the only reason I stayed behind, but it was a good thing I did.

  Twenty minutes later one of Stevenson’s aides came down and went over to the vending machine. I recognized him from earlier in the day, when he’d been standing on the stage next to the candidate. He was alone now. We were the only two people in the lobby. He was patting down his pockets, searching for change.

  “Need a dime?” I rushed over and held out my hand with a few coins resting in my palm.

  “Oh, thank you.” He slipped a dime into the slot and pulled out a Coca-Cola.

  “Long day, huh?” I said.

  He nodded. “You can say that again.”

  “So what’s going on up there?” I gestured toward the elevators, expecting him to give me the brush-off. But he was young and inexperienced. He didn’t ask if I was a reporter.

  He uncapped his Coke, took a long guzzle and began talking. “Stevenson’s up there working on the nominating speech with the senator.”

  “The senator?”

  “Yeah. Senator Kennedy.” He took another gulp of his soda pop.

  “So you’re saying that Senator Kennedy’s going to give the nominating speech?”

  I probably should have masked the shock in my voice. That tipped him off, making him nearly choke on his drink. The aide realized then that he had said too much. But it was too late. If what he’d just told me was true, it meant that Kennedy would not be the vice presidential candidate. The party never let a running mate deliver the nominating speech.

  “I need to get back up there,” he said, chucking the bottle in the wastebasket as he punched the elevator button.

  As soon he disappeared, I rushed to the nearest telephone booth and called back into the city desk.

  “Jordan,” said Higgs, “I’ve just hung up with Walter. I’m going to finish this up and—”

  “But Walter’s not at Stevenson’s office and I am. And I’ve got word that he’s working on his nominating speech at this very minute and get this—this is . . .”

  I heard some muffled voices and scuffling on the other end of the line before someone else came on the phone. “Walsh—” It was Mr. Copeland. “What the hell are you doing now? Stick to the goddamn stories you’ve been assigned to and stop messing with—”

  “Kennedy’s not going to be the vice presidential nominee.”

  That stopped him from shouting at me. “What? How do you know?”

  “I spoke with one of Stevenson’s aides and the party’s asked Kennedy to nominate him. And you know that if Kennedy delivers the nominating speech, he’s not going to be on the ticket.”

  I heard Mr. Copeland exhale into the receiver. He sounded exasperated when he said, “Get a confirmation on that and then call us back. And, Walsh?”

  “Yes?”

  “Nice work.”

  He hung up on me, but I didn’t care.

  • • •

  The next day the editors brought Gabby in to cover the rest of the women’s stories for me and I began working the convention, sharing a byline with Marty and Walter. Marty seemed okay with this change. Walter, of course, was not. But too damn bad. It was a personal victory, and I wasn’t going to apologize for that.

  I wanted to tell Jack what had happened but feared he’d be even more upset than he’d been about me covering the women’s stories. Besides, we’d hardly spoken the past few days, and when we did talk, the conversations weren’t good. We were too polite and stiff or else we were snapping at each other. I carried a dull ache around with me each time we hung up.

  And then the next day I rece
ived a telephone call from Judge Casey.

  “Does a busy gal like you have time for a quick lunch? I can come meet you down by the amphitheater. There’s a place over on Halsted, not far from the convention. I need to talk to you about something privately. Just the two of us.”

  The restaurant was the Sirloin Room inside the Stock Yard Inn. It was a fancy place with white tablecloths and brass-accented leather banquettes. They were known for their meat and had this gimmick where you’d pick a raw steak and watch while your waiter seared your initials right into the meat.

  I had no idea what Judge Casey wanted to see me about, and I was nervous until I saw him coming through the revolving door with that ever-present smile on his face. He greeted me with a big hug and playfully rapped his knuckles against my attaché case.

  “How’s my girl doing?” he asked. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I missed Mass on Sunday and—”

  “Oh, don’t apologize. I know you’re busy. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “Oh, me? I’m fine.”

  He gave me a doubting look, as if he could see right through me. “Listen, I know Jack isn’t always the easiest person to get along with.”

  “It’s just that he sees this as some sort of competition between us. I don’t want him to resent me because of my job.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. But you have to understand, he’s not used to you career types. His mother never worked a day in her life. This is all new to him. And Jack’s a proud young man. He wants to be the big shot, the breadwinner. Someone you can look up to and respect.”

  “But I do. I do respect him.” I rested my head in my hands. “I just—I don’t know how to make this work with him.”

  “Can I give you a little fatherly advice?”

  “Yes. Please.” I was starved for some fatherly advice and my own father had checked out of that department.

  “You’re a strong woman. I knew that the first time Jack brought you home. And I know strong women because I was raised by one. Grandma Casey is tough as nails. Why do you think everyone in the family’s scared to death of her?” He laughed, and as his smile receded, he leaned in closer and cleared his throat. “Jordan, I don’t mean to pry, and I hope you know that I only want the best for you, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I know you and Jack love each other, but I see you struggling with all this and I have to ask—are you prepared for what is expected of you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to convert to a whole new religion and a whole new way of life. You’re entering into a mixed marriage, and it won’t be easy. I just want to make sure your eyes are wide open. I want you to make sure this is right for you. Is this really what you want? To become a Catholic? To become a housewife? A mother? And understand that I won’t judge you either way.”

  I couldn’t speak just then. These choices had caged me in. I ran my hand along my collar and opened the top button. I needed air.

  “You know I want you to be happy. I want Jack to be happy, too. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt. But if this isn’t right, then you both have to recognize it. Doesn’t mean you don’t love each other, but converting just to pacify Jack and the rest of us won’t be good for the marriage or for the children.”

  I heard myself sigh as a knot of tension that I didn’t even know I’d been harboring began unraveling inside my chest. Someone understood. Someone was giving me an out.

  “Do you get what I’m saying?” he asked.

  All I could do was nod.

  • • •

  I had been working eighteen hours a day covering the convention, and when it was finally over, the Democrats had nominated Adlai Stevenson and Estes Kefauver to go up against Eisenhower and Nixon.

  I was tired to the bone and could have easily gone home, taken a bath and crawled into bed, but I wanted to follow up on my story about the close of the convention. I went back to the city room and stood with Higgs at the rewrite desk, reading over his shoulder, adding in last-minute facts and scouring my notes for the best quotes. After we finished, we ran it by the night editor, dropped the copy into the capsule and sent it through the pneumatic tube to the composing room on the third floor. I followed the story down, not wanting to leave anything to chance.

  The composing room always fascinated me. I remember the first time I was down there. It was an enormous place, noisy, hot—even in the wintertime—and filled with a pungent scent of ink and newsprint. This was where dozens upon dozens of men—bank boys, Linotype operators and proofreaders—dressed in heavy leather aprons brought the paper to life each day. With ink-stained fingers they set our stories letter by letter and had the uncanny ability to read type upside down and backward, to proof a story reading it right to left. I had no idea how they did this, and it fascinated me.

  When I came back up from the composing room, I ran into Mrs. Angelo.

  “What are you still doing here?” I asked.

  “Rewriting all of Gabby’s stories from the convention. She’s no good being out in the field. Makes her a nervous Nellie. I told them so, but did they listen to me? No.” She sat down at her desk and started typing like a madwoman.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Yeah, come back to society news.”

  “Mrs. Angelo, I—I . . .”

  “Oh, never mind. I’m just giving you a hard time. It’ll be faster if I do it myself.” She pressed her lips together tightly and shook her head as she typed.

  I went back over to my desk and telephoned Jack. I held my breath, listening to the phone ringing. I could picture the sound echoing off the bare walls in his apartment, his black rotary phone no doubt on the floor by his bed, the cord tangled in a pile of discarded socks and blankets. I was about to hang up when at last he answered.

  “Will you meet me at my place?” I asked. When he didn’t say anything, my voice cracked. “Please? I need to see you.”

  By the time I got to my apartment, Jack was waiting for me outside. I kissed him hello and felt his hand lightly stroke my back. I tried to look him in the eye, but he wouldn’t have it yet. We stood in the hallway of my apartment building. The stroller was still there, a broken lamp lying on the quilted blanket. With my attaché case in hand, I fumbled through my handbag for my keys while Jack and I made small talk about the rain and the humidity. It was a ridiculous conversation, and painful.

  When I got the key in the door, I turned to him and said, “How long are we supposed to pretend that you’re not upset with me for covering the convention?”

  “That’s not what I’m upset about.”

  “If that’s not it, then I’d love to know what’s bothering you.”

  “You want to know what’s bothering me? All right, I’ll tell you. You said you were covering the women’s stories—not Kennedy’s nominating speech. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why would you have lied about it?”

  “Lied? I didn’t lie about it.” I turned the key and heard the lock trip. “I didn’t even know I was going to cover that. I was covering all that other crap. I was bored to tears. Believe me, Mr. Ellsworth did not assign the nominating speech to me. I went out and got that story. I saw an opportunity and I took it. You would have done the same thing if you’d been me.”

  I watched him run his tongue along his crooked front teeth, making a sucking sound. “You need to get your priorities straight,” he told me.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Do you want to marry me or what? The bishop already gave us permission to be married in the church—even though you haven’t done anything about converting.”

  “Oh, God”—I dropped my briefcase to the floor—“now you’re starting to sound like your mother.”

  “Well, either you’re ready to convert and get married or you’re not. It’s just that simple.”

  “So this is all on me now—is that it?” I was app
alled, and my mind shot back to my lunch with Judge Casey. I had to ask once again if this was the right decision for me. “What’s really bothering you?”

  “I can’t get five minutes alone with you to discuss anything.”

  We both knew that wasn’t true, and I was getting tired of apologizing for my drive, for my wanting a career.

  “What are you trying to prove anyway?” he said. “You’re running around town with that ridiculous briefcase—trying to act like you’re a man.” He gave my attaché case a shove with his foot.

  “That’s funny, because we both know that if I were a man—if the situation were reversed—this conversation wouldn’t be happening. We’d be celebrating my success, and instead you’re punishing me for it. This was a big story I was working on and you know it. Just admit it: this isn’t about us getting married. This is about me covering the convention and you being pulled off of it.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Is it really?”

  We were standing in the living room. I hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, and the streetlamp’s slow coming in through the window was casting a shadow over his face. We weren’t saying anything. We had reached a standoff. I heard the kitchen faucet dripping and I went over to tighten the knob. He came up behind me at the sink and wrapped his arms about my waist, letting his chin drop to my shoulder.

  “Just tell me one thing,” he said, his breath rushing in and out against my neck. “Do you need me? Do you even want me around?”

  “Oh, God, Jack.” I groaned and pulled away from him. “Why do you always have to say things like that?”

  “Because I never know how you feel about me. About us. You never tell me. You never show any real emotion.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Your family has really made a mess of you. You think they’re cold and unfeeling. Take a look in the mirror sometime. You’re like an iceberg.”

  He glared at me, and in that moment I felt my stomach knotting up even as I discounted what he’d said. I was strong. I had to be strong. I couldn’t go to pieces and start blubbering every time I hit a bump in the road. Didn’t he understand that?