Tetrazzini Chickens Out

Hubbard Lands in City to Promote Boeing Airplane Company

By NED KIRK

SAN FRANCISCO, AUGUST 21: Eddie Hubbard, William Boeing’s right-hand man, plans a short trip to this city to show off the Boeing C-700. “The seaplane is the future of aviation,” the daring pilot proclaims. He will be in town this week to spread his aviation gospel and to take the braver of our city’s bigwigs for aerial joyrides.

“Hattie! Hattie!” Raymond flagged me down. “Don’t worry. He’s gone.”

Raymond seemed even fuzzier this morning than usual. Maybe he nipped at two bottles last night rather than one.

“Ned?” I asked. I couldn’t think of any other “he.” But he’d picked up everything I’d pulled together for him the morning before, when I got off work.

“Scruffy-looking guy. Needs a haircut. Grease under his nails.” Raymond gave a tight nod, as if that was all that needed to be said about the unexpected visitor. “Asking for you. But I sent him on his way.”

“Well, I do appreciate your watching out for me.” I shifted the newspaper I carried to my other arm and pushed the button for the elevator. I was eager to catch a few precious winks, as Ned and I had a story to cover that afternoon.

Raymond stepped behind the front desk. “He wouldn’t leave till I took this message.” He handed me a piece of paper and I read the five words written there: “Mr. Whiskers’ friend was here.”

“Oh!” I stopped. “Do you know where he went?”

He scratched his head. “He did ask where to get a decent breakfast. I sent him over to Scuzzi’s.”

I flew upstairs to freshen up, then changed into the dress Ruby had bought for me. I popped on the matching cloche and hurried over to Scuzzi’s.

The restaurant was crowded with workingmen, a crush of male heads all wearing similar newsboy-style caps. It took me a second or two to pick out the head I was looking for. Hoping for.

“Is that chair taken?” I stopped at the table for two where Charlie sat by himself. Seeing him was like taking a long sip of cold water on a hot, hot day.

He stood and pulled the chair out for me. “I wasn’t sure that fellow would give you my message. He didn’t seem to think much of me.”

“Raymond wasn’t impressed with your dirty nails.” I sat down. The waiter saw me, held up the coffee carafe, and waggled it, as if to ask if I wanted a cup. I nodded. I didn’t really need any, but it would give me something to do with my hands.

“If he did anything but flit around behind that desk, he’d get his nails dirty, too.” Charlie glanced down. “Guess they are kind of stained. But it comes with the territory.”

I settled my dress. “That looks good.” Charlie’s breakfast of hash browns, eggs, bacon, and pie reminded my stomach that I’d skipped my wee-hours lunch to type another copy of my working-girls article.

When the waiter came with my coffee, Charlie ordered a second breakfast. “Eggs over medium this time,” he told the waiter. “That’s the way you like them, right?”

“Oh, I don’t need all that,” I protested.

“Yes, you do.” He pushed the sugar bowl my way. “Perilee keeps fussing, worried that you’re not eating. ‘She’ll be green-bean skinny,’ she says.” He looked me over. “You eat that breakfast or I’ll tell her she’s right.”

I had been scrimping on meals so the coins in my cold cream jar would multiply faster. There had been a lot of saltine and butter sandwiches lately. Time to change the subject. “I read that Eddie Hubbard was coming to town.” I thought it best not to mention that I knew the writer of the article. Or that I knew why he was in town.

“It’s something a bright young reporter like you might be interested in.” His eyes twinkled in that wonderful Charlie way.

The waiter placed my breakfast in front of me. My stomach clenched at the sight of it. I’d told Charlie about my job at the paper but had never gotten around to telling him what that job was. He had assumed I was a reporter. It was time to fess up.

“Charlie …”

“Don’t you want your eggs?”

I took a bite. “Delicious.” I might as well have sampled the tablecloth.

“I can’t wait any longer.” Charlie’s face lit up like a starry night sky. “You’ve heard of Luisa Tetrazzini, the opera star, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she’s in town. Singing at some fancy theater.” He gobbled down a biscuit in two bites. “And she’s paid for an aerial tour of the city. Wouldn’t have any pilot but Eddie Hubbard.”

I poked at my fried eggs. “Your boss.”

“And he wouldn’t have any mechanic but me, so here I am.” He pushed his empty plate out of the way and slid the piece of pie in its place. “Seemed like a great story in it for you.”

Oh, this was awful. Here he was thinking about how he might be able to help me, and I hadn’t even been honest with him. I cleared my throat to make sure I could trust my voice. “If the Great Tetrazzini’s going up in the air, some newshound has probably already sniffed it out.”

“Maybe.” Charlie cocked his head. “But maybe you’ll sniff out something another newshound doesn’t.” He reached over and forked off a piece of my uneaten peach pie. How could I have forgotten about that scar over his left eye that dimpled when he smiled? “Cancel that. There’s no ‘maybe’ when Hattie Brooks is on the case. Or whatever you call working a story.”

I didn’t deserve his faith in me. I set my fork down. “Charlie. I have to tell you something.” Everything spilled out.

“You stayed here to be a charwoman?” he asked when I’d finished. “You could have done that in Great Falls.”

“I’m doing more than that,” I said. “The research. And I do have the one baseball article. That’s something I wouldn’t have had in Great Falls.”

He shook his head. “I gotta hand it to you. You really are going after this, aren’t you?”

My heart melted at his kindness. His support. “I’m trying to,” I told him.

“You done with your food?” When I nodded, he opened his wallet and threw down a dollar bill to pay for our breakfasts. “I suppose you’d already planned to be at the airfield.”

“Yes.” I stood up. “I’ll see you there.”

At the door, he took my hand. When his palm slid next to mine, it was like a key slipping into my heart. I squeezed. One-two-three. Like I used to do with Mattie. Charlie didn’t know what that signal meant. Just as well.

“I have to say one thing, Hattie.” He squeezed back, then looked right at me with those mesmerizing eyes. “I wish you’d been straight with me about the job. I think I deserved that.”

I couldn’t disagree with him. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

He tugged me close, and I filled my lungs with his clean smell. “If a guy wants to be your fellow, he’d best learn to watch out for those snake balls you keep throwing.” His lips brushed my forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

After we parted company, I walked back to the hotel, his words of forgiveness buoying me up as if I were a zeppelin. If it hadn’t been for my sturdy brown oxfords, I might have floated right away. How could I have forgotten how good Charlie smelled? How strong his hard-working hands? Or how being with him was like dipping into a beloved book? Maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe I should go to Seattle.

I stumbled over a stone on the sidewalk, jarring myself and my thoughts back to earth. My heart had no right to take over like this. It was a hammer making crooked nails out of all my plans to be a writer. Not a wife. I shot a cranky prayer heavenward, demanding to know why the good Lord had given Charlie Hawley eyes that made a girl forget everything she was working toward.

Back in my room, I pulled the covers over my head, aiming to get a few hours of shut-eye before the afternoon’s event. There was little shut-eye but much tossing and turning. Finally I gave up and got dressed to go out again. Ned and I had planned to meet in the newsroom. But he was nowhere to be seen when I arrived. The minutes ticked past and still no Ned.

“Aren’t you going to the airfield?” Miss D’Lacorte shrugged into a chiffon cocoon jacket.

I looked around. Was she speaking to me? Stunned at this attention from the Tiger Woman, I stammered out a reply. “I—I was supposed to go with Ned.”

She opened her pocketbook, pulled out a set of car keys, and jingled them. “I’d say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Ride with me.” She started for the elevator.

I hesitated. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d miss the flight. But what would Ned think when he arrived to find me gone? If he arrived. Besides, did one dare turn down an invitation from a tiger?

“Wait!” I hurried after her, one step behind the whole way to her car.

“Got your notebook?” she asked as she cranked the ignition.

I was glad I could answer affirmatively. “I keep it in my pocketbook,” I told her. A car honked as she lurched out into the street. I kept my eyes straight ahead. I hated to admit it, but Miss D’Lacorte made a good case against women having licenses to drive.

She took the next corner too sharply and sent a pedestrian scurrying back to the curb and me sliding up against the passenger door.

I pushed myself back to an upright seated position. “Are we late?” I hoped she’d hear the hint to slow down in my words.

“A reporter can never be too early.” She shifted gears and we rolled down O’Farrell. “Or too well prepared.” She glanced over at me. “I suppose it’s hopeless to think you could write anything about Tetrazzini.” The Tiger’s claws unsheathed.

Thank goodness I’d thought to jot down some notes about the opera star when I’d been poking around in the morgue that time. I fished out my notebook and improvised. “Luisa Tetrazzini, called the Florentine Nightingale, was born June 29, 1871, and began singing opera as a child. She made her San Francisco debut in 1905.…”

Miss D’Lacorte held up one hand and gestured with the other. “Dry as—”

“Look out!” I flattened against the seat, steeling against a crash. She clasped the wheel and miraculously avoided hitting a jitney head-on.

“—dust,” she continued, unfazed by the mayhem she was causing. “You need to add some frosting to those facts. Help them go down sweeter.”

“She’s large.” I remembered her photograph in the paper. “Very large.”

“Hattie.” Miss D’Lacorte clicked her tongue. “And here I thought you actually had an imagination. What you mean to say is, ‘The Florentine Nightingale is full-figured, attesting to a life lived with verve and passion.’ ”

I continued. “The neighbor’s dog began to howl when I played one of her recordings on Maude’s Grafonola.” When it came to opera music, I sided with the dog.

“Her voice inspires each who hears to join the heavenly song,” Miss D’Lacorte paraphrased. A long, heavy sigh escaped her. “You’re not even trying.”

I sat, chewing the end of my pencil as we rattled pell-mell to the Flying Field at the Presidio. It was hard to think clearly when facing certain death due to either an auto wreck or the sharp tongue of Marjorie D’Lacorte. I thought about how dramatics defined Miss D’Lacorte’s driving as well as her writing style. “How about this for the headline? ‘Florentine Nightingale Soars Over San Francisco.’ ”

That earned me a quick glance. “Not bad. Now, give me the lead.”

The lead? For a story yet to unfold? “I haven’t met her yet. Haven’t seen the flight!”

“Swizzle sticks. Never hurts to have a lead ready to go. Just in case.” She double-clutched. “Sometimes we record history, but sometimes we make it.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Me? Make history?

“I’m dead serious.” She waggled her finger at me. “And you should be, too. I want one hundred words by the time we reach the airfield.”

“A hundred!” I nearly dropped the pencil.

“This job’s about quality and speed.” She honked at the driver in front of her. “Now get cracking.”

Okay. Okay. So what did I know? A fat—rather, a full-figured opera diva was going to go for a spin with Eddie Hubbard in one of Mr. Boeing’s seaplanes. It would hardly do to comment about whether the plane would get off the ground with such a passenger. Opera singer. Airplane. Opera singer. Airplane. Opera singer … famous pilot! I began to scribble. With that germ of an idea, I was able to knit together words, then sentences, faster than Perilee could knit a pair of baby booties.

“We’re nearly there.” Miss D’Lacorte extended her arm to signal the last turn. “Whatcha got?”

“It’s not very good,” I started.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “Give.”

“Here goes.” I cleared my throat and then, hesitantly, began to read. “Each night on the stage, the Florentine Nightingale, Luisa Tetrazzini, sends her listeners soaring with her cultivated tones. Each day, from far-flung airfields, Eddie Hubbard sends airplanes soaring with his piloting skills. Today, history was made when opera singer and pilot soared together over our fair city, allowing Madame Tetrazzini to hit the highest note of her grand career.”

The last word barely out of my mouth, I glanced over at Miss D’Lacorte. There wasn’t any reaction right away. Then, one corner of her lipsticked mouth curved up. Ever so slightly. “You might not be worthless after all.” With that pronouncement, she hurled the car into a parking spot near the airfield alongside a brand-new Packard. She turned off the engine, then shoved her door open, smacking it into the Packard. She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Now the mayor will have one more thing to complain to Monson about!” She pulled out her handbag and shut the door. “Come on. That rat from the Call is already here.”

I followed her, feeling very much like a lamb trotting after a shepherd. I was tempted to grab the hem of her cocoon coat so as not to get separated. A knot of people, mostly reporters armed with notepads and photographers with flashes at the ready, stood near an airplane. I jotted down the model number, pleased with myself that I’d remembered Charlie’s aeronautics lessons. Painted yellow, the plane looked like an oversized kite awaiting a good gust of wind. It sported a pair of red pontoons, like giant-sized clown shoes. Three wavy stripes of red, white, and blue adorned the tip of the tailpiece.

A photographer stood on one of the pontoons for close-up shots. He was of average height and yet he was tall enough to look over the top of the plane’s body. Could this flimsy machine really hold two people? Especially if one of them was the generously sized Luisa Tetrazzini?

There weren’t many familiar faces in the crowd. At least, not familiar to me. Miss D’Lacorte seemed to know everyone. That must be Mr. Boeing, shaking hands with the mayor. Near them, Flash and another photographer jockeyed around one another for the best shots of the scene. The man off to the side, smoking and talking to Charlie as he worked on the plane, must be Eddie Hubbard. I weaved around a clump of reporters for a better view of Charlie at work.

There was no chance of my disturbing his endeavors. If he was occupied with a job that tickled his fancy, like working on planes, a body could dress like Helen of Troy and ride a mare backward, all the while singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and Charlie would pay no never-mind. Of course, I had no room to talk. How many times had I headed to the morgue, intent on finding out something about Uncle Chester, unaware I’d worked through my midnight meal until my stomach put up a terrible ruckus? I had no idea what Charlie was doing with those tools over there, but he was doing it with fierce intensity.

My attention was diverted by a caravan of touring cars gliding toward the airfield. As soon as the first car came to a stop, a man wearing a top hat and evening jacket hopped out and scurried to the second. He opened the door and offered his hand. From that second car a very large woman emerged. She seemed to get stuck in the opening, but the man in the fancy dress gave a firm tug and she popped out, like a fat pickle from a small jar. “Buon giorno!” She waved a riding crop to the crowd. “Hello!”

This Florentine Nightingale had no trouble making herself heard. Two photographers ran at her, flash powder flaring in their Victor pans. “Oh, fine. That’s Three-Alarm Dooley,” Miss D’Lacorte said over her shoulder. “Let’s hope he doesn’t set the Great Tetrazzini on fire.” She followed the rest of the reporters, far at the back, but soon she had grapevined her way through the crush, and there she was, right out front, right next to Luisa Tetrazzini.

The opera star was waving and smiling, but others in her retinue were not. In fact, soon there were emphatic gestures and shouts of “No, no!” I wiggled myself through the crush to Miss D’Lacorte’s side. A little man wearing a beret was flapping his arms so fast and hard, I thought he might take off without benefit of an airplane.

“Madame’s throat!” he cried. His words were echoed by Madame’s contingent. “The wind, too cold! Too cold. And she must sing tomorrow night!”

“But it’s August,” someone pointed out. “And balmy.”

“Down here, the balm.” Mr. Beret pointed heavenward. “Up in the sky, who can tell?” He shivered for effect.

“So the air excursion is off?” Miss D’Lacorte pushed closer. “Too risky for the great Tetrazzini?”

Mr. Beret gestured again. “I am her manager. And I say this air no good for her voice. No good.”

“No good. No flight?” repeated Miss D’Lacorte.

“Si. No flight!” Mr. Beret puffed himself up.

“But, amore mio,” intoned the star, “I have already paid fifty dollars. So much money!”

Mr. Beret whisked his palms against each other, as if sweeping away that problem. Her foolish spending was clearly none of his affair. During this discussion, Charlie had been leaning against the side of the plane; he tugged on the bill of his cap when he saw me, then got back to his tinkering.

“Seems a shame to waste a flight.” Miss D’Lacorte slapped her notepad shut, then called out to Eddie Hubbard. “You game regardless, Eddie?”

He did a double-take when he saw Miss D’Lacorte, then shrugged. “My time’s bought and paid for.” He flipped his cigarette butt to the ground and twisted it dead with his flight boot.

“Seems a shame to waste all this press, too,” she continued.

Eddie Hubbard zipped up his flight jacket. “Do you have a point, Marjorie?”

Somehow it seemed fitting that this pilot would know her name. Part of her “interesting life,” no doubt.

Miss D’Lacorte cocked her head. “How about a different passenger?”

“You?” Eddie Hubbard frowned. “That last time I took you up in Seattle, you—” He made an upchucking motion.

She held up her hand. “Not me. Her.”

As if one body, the press corps swiveled their heads. In my direction.

My head swiveled, too. Was Miss D’Lacorte serious? She gave me a nod of encouragement. “Page one,” she murmured, speaking the two words as if they were a magical incantation.

Charlie took his attention off readying the airplane for flight to see which sucker had been singled out as Tetrazzini’s replacement. He grinned when he saw it was me.

I stood there for several seconds, my fear of the effects of gravity on that small craft battling the siren call of my own byline.

“Are we on?” asked Eddie.

I nodded, then turned to Miss D’Lacorte. “I guess I better come up with a new lead,” I said. The crowd hooted as the Madame unzipped her flying costume and handed it over to me. The leather duster wrapped around me twice, and Charlie had to knot the goggles’ strap to get them to stay on my head. I pulled gloves from the duster pocket and slipped them on my hands.

“Look here, Hattie!” I turned in the direction of Flash’s voice. “That’ll be a good one.” I smiled for several of the other photographers, too.

“In bocca al lupo!” cried Luisa Tetrazzini.

“Um, thank you?” I said.

Her manager leaned toward me. “Very important. For good luck! You must say crepi!”

My pronunciation was nothing like his, but it did the trick and earned a huge smile from the manager and a roar of laughter from the opera star.

Eddie Hubbard helped me into the plane and I settled into the open compartment in front of the pilot’s. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t much different from riding in one of those Ferris wheel chairs, with nothing but a bar to hold you in. People didn’t fall out of those, did they? If they did, I didn’t want to know.

Charlie leaned into my compartment, tugging on this strap and that, making sure I was fastened in tight.

“Did you get whatever it was you were working on fixed?” I asked weakly.

“Mostly.” He stepped back.

“Charlie!”

He grinned. “This is as safe as an auto,” he said, patting the edge of my compartment. “I wouldn’t let you go if it wasn’t.” He reached over and squeezed my gloved hand. The feeling that shot through me did nothing to help the jitters. My heart and my stomach leapfrogged over each other into my throat.

A deep inhale helped steady my nerves. I’d survived Miss D’Lacorte’s wild motoring; surely I could survive one short jaunt through the sky. My heart’s crazy flight was another story altogether, and one I’d have to deal with later.

“High-flying Hattie!” Flash cheered me on.

Miss D’Lacorte waved her notepad. “Happy landings!” she called.

Eddie climbed into the pilot’s seat behind me and said something I couldn’t understand. Did he say to wave my arms? No time to wonder about it. Within a wink the engine grumbled to life, jogging me around in my seat despite being snugly strapped in.

Charlie slapped the side of the plane and gave Eddie a thumbs-up. Then he shifted slightly in my direction and snapped off a salute. I returned it with a quavery attempt of my own.

We backed away from the shore, made a long, clean turn to get going in the right direction, and then skimmed across the water’s surface. So far, so good.

With forced bravado, I waved once more to the crowd, which I could no longer hear over the engine noise.

I squared myself in the seat. The seaplane looked even smaller from this inside view. The passenger compartment was about the size of the washtub I’d used for bathing back on the homestead. From where I sat, I could see things a mere mortal should never see: a rusted bolt, a mended tear in the body fabric, a seam that appeared to be unraveling.

“Oh, Lord,” I prayed. “Keep me safe.” I kept praying, vigorously, that my first-ever flight would not be my last.

The rumbling engine vibrated every part of my body, making me wonder if I’d return to earth with all my teeth. It was all I could do to keep a clumsy grip on my pencil and notepad. Slowly, awkwardly, like one of the gawky brown pelicans I’d seen on the bay, the man-made bird began to rise. I forced my eyes to open and my jaws to unclench as we gained speed and then altitude. One second we were skating on water, the next, on air.

We eased northward, toward the Yacht Harbor, clearing the main mast of a wooden schooner rocking in the marina there and startling a seagull resting on the rigging. As he flew off, complaining loudly about the disruption we’d caused, my stomach finally regained its proper place amongst my innards.

Lacy clouds frothed around the seaplane like spun sugar. We continued to push through to the clear sky above, and I pushed myself up in the seat, worries dissolving like the clouds. There was no room for fear when faced with such a vista. From my ever-ascending perch, I could take the city in all at once: the Palace of Fine Arts, the wharves, Nob Hill. And, if I crooked my neck, I could see the Golden Gate where the bay opened out to the Pacific Ocean. I’d have a crick later from all this gawking, but it’d be worth it.

The smoothness of this glide through the sky astonished me. After our bouncy beginning, I’d expected nonstop jostling. But now our progress was gentle enough for me to slip off my gloves and open my notepad to capture my thoughts. We nosed toward the Ferry Building, back to the place I’d first set foot in San Francisco. The sun formed diamonds on the bay’s surface beyond the buildings and the busy wharves. With the wind rushing in my ears and scrubbing my face, I wrote down those words—“the sun formed diamonds”—and then crossed them right out. I could hear Miss D’Lacorte’s sharp disapproval of that old cliché. I tried again. “The water glittered like a mother’s loving eyes as she beholds her child.…” Another scratch-out. “Thousands of watery fireflies winked up at me from the surface of the bay.…” Watery fireflies? This was getting worse, not better. I put my pencil to paper once more. “It looked as if the bay were filled with crystal sequins, facets glimmering—”

My pencil gouged the page and I screamed. We were dropping! Falling. Out of the sky. I flapped my arms as if that activity would somehow slow our descent. Down, down, down. The water I’d admired seconds before was rising up to meet this bucket of bolts. Had the engine stalled?

“Eddie!” I screamed again, but the word was ripped out of my mouth by the rushing wind. Now we began to tip. To tilt. And still falling. I braced myself against the front of the compartment. Why had I so quickly volunteered for this? Pride! Pride that I would snag a story. Here was the fall that pride required. Loved ones’ faces flashed in front of me. Even Aunt Ivy’s.

San Francisco turned first on its side. Then upside down. Too frightened to be sick, I hung on for dear life. Mouth opened. No sound came out. We hurtled toward the Ferry Building. I called out again but this time for Charlie. The tower loomed in front of us. Dear God, don’t let me die. Not now! I thought of Perilee. Of Charlie. Charlie and his thumbs-up. That image burned itself into the back of my eyes as if lit by flash powder. I prayed without words. Steeled myself for the crash. For the end. I closed my eyes.

A peculiar sensation overtook me. It was as if I were an infant again, being rocked in my mother’s arms. My heart slowed its pounding. I opened my eyes.

San Francisco was proper side up. The sky above, the sea below. We had nipped around the clock tower with room to spare. Once again we were cruising along, bobbing as gently as a bar of soap in a bathtub. I brushed at the tears that had leaked out under my goggles, then felt around for my notebook. Gone. Along with the borrowed gloves. I gulped sea air and laughed out loud at the antics of yet another agitated gull annoyed by our aircraft. I could see the crowd on the shore and hollered with sheer joy at the sight of them.

The pontoons kissed the water and we skimmed the bay’s surface, coming to an easy rest back where we’d started. Eddie was quickly at my side, assisting me out of the seat.

“You are one cool customer,” he said. “When I told you to wave your arms if you wanted some tricks, I didn’t know you’d want the whole packet!”

Dazed, I tried to read his ear-to-ear grin. “The whole packet?”

He reached over and flipped up the collar on my loaned duster. “Loop the loop, spiral roll. We even did a falling leaf.” He motioned for me to push my goggles up on top of my head. “You want to look jaunty for the camera,” he said.

Jaunty. Tell that to my legs. Tell it to my stomach! But I squared my shoulders, wiped sweaty hands on my borrowed duster, and climbed out of the seaplane. We stood together on those clown-shoe red pontoons and I shook my clasped hands over my head like a victorious prizefighter.

I caught familiar newsroom faces in the crowd—Miss D’Lacorte, Flash. And Ned, too. When had he arrived? But Charlie was the first to greet me. I jumped on his neck and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. I didn’t give a fig who saw. I was that glad to be alive. He swung me around. It was so wonderful, I didn’t want to let go.

“Got a good story to tell, kid?” Miss D’Lacorte asked.

Charlie and I untangled and I smiled over at Eddie.

“You’ll have to read about it in the papers,” I answered.