Sold on a Monday

by Kristina McMorris

  The tension in his face loosened, enough for a partial smile. “I appreciate that. But it’s not a problem.”

  She smiled back before he shifted his attention to his notebook. He seemed to be merely occupying himself.

  Ellis’s somberness couldn’t have stemmed strictly from her behavior. There had to be something more.

  “Is…anything else troubling you?”

  He appeared to be contemplating whether to answer, deepening her concern.

  In the background, a duet of typewriters clacked a jagged rhythm as a reporter wished another a good night. Yet Lily kept her focus on Ellis. While she didn’t have time for a lengthy discussion, she likely had a bit.

  She took a seat at the very next desk, purse on her lap, and caught the gratitude in his eyes.

  “I got an offer,” he replied before lowering his voice. “To work on City News.”

  A promotion. Lily was genuinely happy for him, lacking any of her prior shameful jealousy. “That’s wonderful. You must be so proud.” Then recalling his mood, she observed, “But you’re not celebrating.”

  “It’s the New York Herald Tribune.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “City editor called yesterday. Thought the Trib could use a reporter with some heart, he said. His wife has a friend just outside Philly and recommended my features. Still hard to believe.”

  Lily should have known this was coming. His articles, as much as his photographs, radiated with a care and sincerity that captivated readers. In the small world of news, a keen editor was bound to track Ellis down.

  “Truth be told, Miss Palmer, that’s why I asked you about going to the Cove. Guess I’m in need of some pretty good guidance again.” He laughed under his breath, hinting at embarrassment for having to ask.

  “So, you’re still deciding?”

  “Must be off my nut, right? It’s a dream job for any journalist around.”

  Only at that moment did Lily realize how much she hoped that she, above all, was the cause of his reluctance. A silly notion, which she firmly pushed away.

  “Then what’s the trouble?”

  He wet his lips, as if to ease the flow of words. “Thing is, when the chief assigned me that first feature, with the photo of the kids, I saw it as my big break. A chance to prove to everyone back at home that I could really do this.”

  “And now?”

  “Now all these swell things are happening. But when I think about that picture…”

  The actual issue becoming clear, Lily volunteered the rest: “You feel guilty. About making gains from their misfortune.” It was an understandable response.

  “No. I mean, there’s that, of course. But it’s…well…”

  He connected with her eyes right then, and once more she sensed it. There was a truth he was guarding, an ardent secrecy she could relate to firsthand. Perhaps it involved the brother he had lost, his personal link to the photograph. She knew nothing more, outside of her own dark past evoked by the image.

  “You can tell me,” she assured him. “I promise, my lips are sealed.” She could see again that he trusted her, despite having little reason to do so.

  Wistfully, Ellis leaned toward her, his face just inches from hers. She caught the faint scent of soap on his skin, the warmth of his breath. She had no desire to pull away, feeling far more comfortable than she should. But as he went to speak, his attention caught on a sight behind her. Abruptly he drew his head back, and Lily just as soon discovered the reason.

  “Don’t mean to intrude,” Clayton said to her. He held his leather briefcase at his side, his fedora over his waist. “Just wanted to say I’m ready when you are.”

  Lily quickly gathered herself and rose. The way her nerves were skittering, one would think she’d been caught in an amorous act—which, of course, she had not.

  “I can wait outside,” Clayton added, “though we should probably hit the road soon.”

  With sweeping force, worries over Samuel flew back at Lily. How could she have forgotten, even for a minute?

  “Yes. You’re absolutely right.” She angled in Ellis’s direction, not quite making eye contact. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reed, but I do need to go.”

  “Nah. It’s me who’s sorry for keeping you.” He delivered the words with a slight coolness as he straightened in his chair. “You already said you were busy tonight. I should’ve remembered.”

  The Cove. When he asked her to go, she had tossed out her stock excuse. Now she wanted desperately to correct his assumption—about her and Clayton as a couple—but there was no easy way to do so.

  “Well then,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She pivoted toward Clayton, who held out his arm as if to make a show of it. She had progressed but a few steps when Ellis responded.

  “Actually, that’s pretty doubtful.” His tone had gained density, a forthrightness that turned her head. “See, I’ve got a lot of packing to do. For the big move.”

  All Lily could do was stare at him as Clayton took the bait.

  “Move, huh? Where to?”

  “Got an offer from New York. From the Herald Tribune.”

  Ellis seemed to be waiting for a reaction—any reporter at the Examiner would be downright envious—but Clayton’s mouth surprisingly slid into a grin. “Yeah? How about that.” He even congratulated Ellis with a hearty handshake.

  It took Lily a conscious effort to mirror their joy. She despised the acute sting of Ellis’s choice. Though only a few hours away, New York City—dubbed “the Big Town” for many a reason—entailed the start of another life. And leaving the rest behind.

  Regardless, when the men’s hands separated, she offered, “In that case, Mr. Reed, I wish you the best of luck.” Then to Clayton: “We ought to get on the road, didn’t you say?”

  “After you,” he replied, and she led him toward the exit, barring herself from looking back.

  Chapter 11

  It was dim of Ellis to hesitate. No reporter with an iota of sense would have turned down the famed Herald Tribune.

  Sure, his decision would have been easier without the hindrance of his conscience. Lily had been right about the source of his guilt, of his success being built on the hardships of others, but that was only the half of it. The Tribune editor’s raves, particularly about the photo of the Dillards, had reminded him of the truth. Or, rather, the lie.

  He’d longed to tell this to someone, and not just anyone. To Lily Palmer. How the picture of those kids was meant to be a single rung on the rise of his career. How instead, although it shouldn’t, that photograph suddenly felt like the whole ladder.

  There was something about her that told him she’d understand, an underlying connection. At least he had thought so until Clayton’s interjection made the situation all too clear. In that moment, reflexive pride had spurred Ellis to decide about the job. Once the words were out, he couldn’t very well take them back. Even if he could, why should he? The move to New York was just what he needed. Before long, any memory of Lily and the Dillard kids would fade far into the distance.

  Ellis told himself this as he geared up to phone the chief to make it official. He braced for a rant over a perceived show of disloyalty or ingratitude. While the man did mutter over the inconvenience, he ended up wishing Ellis well, even tinged with sincerity.

  It couldn’t have hurt that the actual Society editor was finally set to return in the coming weeks. Plus, a day rarely passed when a writer—aspiring or seasoned, man or woman—didn’t swing by the Examiner on a hunt for an opening. As the saying went, only first-ranked reporters were irreplaceable—until they were replaced.

  Ellis’s father would reinforce as much with relish, if given the chance. That was precisely why Ellis prevented him the opportunity. After all, it was a time of celebration. When it came to sharing his news, he’d deliberately called during the workday to reac
h only his mother. Oh, sweetheart, we’re just so proud of you, she’d said, bubbling with excitement. For an instant, he almost believed the plurality in her claim.

  Within four days of accepting, he’d packed up his belongings—a minimal task if ever there was one—prepared his clunker for the drive, secured an unseen apartment in Brooklyn, and off he went.

  Of course, one peek at his tenement would have quelled his mother’s enthusiasm. For yet again, a single toilet accommodated an entire floor of renters, the walls were as thin as gauze, and tailed critters enjoyed occasional visits. But much improved over the last, his room had a real desk and chair, a bed mostly free of lumps and creaks, and a kitchenette with a sink that ran hot and cold water. Hell, a person could spin with arms spread wide and not risk scraping a single wall. And as a perk, with immigrants of all varieties as neighbors, if Ellis ever got the itch, he could take up just about any foreign language he pleased.

  In truth, he could afford a better place. His starting salary was sixty bucks a week, a decent sum compared to his meager Society pay. But he planned to be smart, save up for a car engine before his old one petered out. Only then would he splurge a little—buy a new hat with a silk band maybe, or a snazzy gabardine suit. Items that would fit right in at the Tribune.

  Like everything in New York, the paper was snappier in both speed and style. At least, it seemed that way the first afternoon he stepped into their fancy building and rode the elevator to reach the city room, a vast space teeming with smoke and intensity. Of all the Mondays to begin, he’d chosen a doozy. Al Capone had just been found guilty of tax evasion. Thomas Edison had gone to meet his maker. Thirty thousand Hitlerites had paraded through Germany. And, to top it off, while plowing through Manchuria, Japan was working to bar America from joining the League of Nations.

  In short, Ellis’s arrival didn’t cause many ripples.

  “Mr. Walker.” He repeated himself for the third time, finally snagging the city editor’s attention. A cluster of reporters had just dispersed from the man’s desk in the center of the room, having confirmed their assignments for the day.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Sir, I’m Ellis Reed.” An expectant pause. But Stanley Walker simply checked his wristwatch while rising from his seat. His wiry frame stood a few inches below Ellis’s height of five nine. His black hair held reddish tints and a light wave.

  “You got a tip? Make it quick. On my way to a meeting.” His light Texan drawl conflicted with his staccato pace.

  “I… No… You hired me. Last week. To work here?”

  A look of bewilderment crossed the man’s clean-shaven face as he pulled on his navy suit jacket, which smelled of cigars. Around them, the familiar ticking of typewriters melded with radio chatter and layered conversations. “What’s your name again?”

  A prickling spread over Ellis’s scalp from sudden fear that this had been a mix-up. “Reed. From the Examiner.”

  “In Pittsburgh?”

  “Philly.”

  Mr. Walker snapped his fingers. “Right, right. The feature writer.” He smiled, showing a flash of discolored teeth, then swiftly lowered his lips as if by habit. “Been one of those mornings. You understand.”

  “Completely.” Ellis shook the man’s hand with relief. “Again, sir, I appreciate the trouble you went to in finding me. You haven’t made a mistake.”

  “I sure as hell hope not.” Another tight smile rendered the remark difficult to read. Then he introduced Ellis to the assistant city editor, parked at the next desk, requesting he help Ellis settle in.

  “I’d be obliged to,” Percy Tate replied. Yet the moment his boss slipped out, Mr. Tate’s attitude noticeably sharpened as he rattled off the basics—from the building layout and department heads to the standard tasks and daily schedule. His delivery was so brisk that Ellis missed half the details. He dared to ask for a repeat of a point and instantly saw his mistake in the man’s hardened face. Everything about him—his eyes and nose, his build and demeanor—resembled a watchful owl. Just biding his time until he swooped in for the kill.

  “Hey there, Mr. Tate,” another man said, stepping in. His boyish face conflicted with his deep voice. “If that’s the new guy, I can take it from here if you’d like.”

  Ellis had obviously failed to hide his befuddlement.

  Mr. Tate tore away without hesitation.

  “I’m Dutch.” The fella offered Ellis a handshake, a genial though sly glint in his eyes. A heavy-lead pencil rested behind one ear, poking through his slicked, chestnut hair.

  “And I’m…not sure what I did wrong.”

  “Ah, don’t mind old purse face.” He flicked his hand in Mr. Tate’s direction. “Wasn’t much better when I first got here.”

  Ellis managed a smile. “Thought it was something personal.”

  “Well, maybe a little,” Dutch admitted. “A pal of his has been vying for a spot here for some time now. Could be sore about that. It’ll pass.”

  Comprehending the issue, Ellis nodded. Not a great way to start off, but even more motivation to prove his worth.

  “Now,” Dutch said, “how’s about a tour?”

  • • •

  Thanks to Dutch—Pete Vernon being his given name—Ellis quickly learned about navigating the labyrinth of floors, the late-night hours of a morning paper, and the key staffers to approach or avoid. As a married father of a toddler boy, with another babe on the way, Dutch kept his after-work mingling to a minimum. But he still slipped in a tour of Bleeck’s, the speakeasy next door on Fortieth Street.

  It was there that Mr. Walker regularly took his lunches, accompanied by a glass or two of scotch. Not that even the paper’s higher-ups would object. Particularly since the Tribune’s owner was known to frequent the same joint in the evenings, putting away more than his share of Prohibition dew—apparently doing the same throughout the day in his large corner office. Fortunately for everyone, his wife was shrewd enough to handle many of the paper’s business dealings. In fact, three years earlier, she could very well have been a driving force behind promoting Mr. Walker from the night staff.

  According to Dutch, the visionary city editor had been tasked with infusing new life into the Tribune. Right off the bat, he replaced the deadweight of aristocratic progenies with a few veteran reporters, but mostly fresh, eager writers to pen stories of “women, wampum, and wrongdoing,” as Mr. Walker liked to put it. In other words, he preferred spotlights on the feel and culture of the city to stale accounts of politics and economics.

  It made sense then why Ellis had been recruited. Nevertheless, gaining his footing was more challenging than expected.

  A few weeks in, and still adjusting to the paper’s hours—often concluding well past midnight—he was at his desk one afternoon, about to drift off, when a portly reporter known as Dobbs smacked Ellis’s shoulder with a scrolled-up page.

  “Got a hot tip, but I’m jam-packed for the day. All yours if you want it.”

  Ellis scrambled to sit up and accepted with gratitude. So far, he’d largely been a legman, dispatched to gather serviceable quotes or supportive details for another reporter’s stories. The rest of the time he served as a newsroom mutt, charged with a long list of menial tasks. The unwanted scraps.

  This was his chance for more. Shedding the fuzziness of sleep, he strained to read Dobbs’s notes about an elusive ship. The floating speakeasy, called the Lucky Seagull, had apparently been spotted on the outskirts of the harbor in the twilight hours. If located, it was just the kind of subject that could earn Ellis a byline.

  Not if, he decided, but when.

  • • •

  Ellis spent the next three days investigating the ship’s whereabouts. Each night, he trolled the chilly docks, a miserable task in November. Several dockhands confirmed rumors of such a vessel but had no other knowledge. Growing desperate, Ellis bypassed skepticis
m and paid far too much for a boat ride with a soused, smelly fisherman who swore to have spied the Lucky Seagull half a dozen times.

  By dawn of the fourth day, Ellis had nothing to show for his efforts, save for a brutal head cold.

  Though dreading to report back, he finally returned for the one o’clock news meeting. The group assembly was a daily occurrence around Mr. Walker’s desk. Between coughs and sneezes, Ellis disclosed his lack of findings. He was halfway through when stifled laughs from the surrounding journalists made clear he’d been duped.

  Once the gathering broke up, Dutch offered a sympathetic look. “Sorry about all that. If I’d heard, I would’ve warned you off.” He gave a shrug. “On slow days around here, putting cubs on impossible assignments, it’s like an initiation. Try not to take it hard.”

  “Sure. I get it.” Ellis wiped his nose with a tissue and smiled to simulate his amusement.

  After all the years he’d worked at the Examiner, it jarred him to be referred to as a cub. True, when it came down to it, his publishing success amounted to little more than a handful of features. Or really, some might say, to a single memorable photograph.

  In fact, the truth of that blasted picture still lurked in the recesses of his mind. A new job in a new city, even in another state, had done nothing so far to wipe the Dillards from his memory. Through his long hours spent shivering on the docks, they’d seeped into his consciousness. He could still see them on that dingy porch, a backdrop to a borrowed sign. Like driftwood, they just kept floating back. The same went for thoughts of Lily Palmer.

  A waste of time, he told himself. All of that was in the past.

  Discounted by the likes of Mr. Tate, and perhaps now by Mr. Walker himself, he would charge forward with even more resolve.

  And so, as the weeks rolled on, Ellis made feverish attempts to land a notable story. Always there was a reason for rejection: not enough meat, already well-covered territory, great theory but lacking ample evidence to take it to press.

  In the meanwhile, he continued to justify his salary by covering basic city assignments, snatching a column inch here and there. Same as most, it was a duty at the paper that largely went unnoticed until marred by an error, like misspelling a star vaudevillian’s name. Or reversing the ages of a mother and son who’d survived a house fire. Or in the caption of a photo, mistaking an ambassador’s wife for his daughter.