Dinner and Disaster

October 12, 1919

Dear Hattie,

How’s this for a headline: “Mechanic Moves North”? Maybe it’s not as catchy as what you might write, but it tells the tale. There seemed no solid reason for me to refuse Mr. Hubbard’s offer of a job in Alaska. And if anyone should understand about taking a chance to follow a dream, you should. I hope you will wish me well.

Yours truly,
Charlie      

P. S. I promise to steer clear of polar bears.

There are earthquakes that shake the body, like the one I’d been through the month before. And then there are earthquakes that rattle the soul. Charlie’s letter fell into that latter category. How could I say anything against his plans to go north, when he had not said a word against my plans to stay in San Francisco? And yet his letter left me as uneasy and uncertain as any seismic activity. As I made my way to work the day after receiving it, all I could do was wonder where my next shake-up would come from.

My solution to keep further disaster at bay was to put nose to grindstone. I cheerfully took whatever Mr. Monson assigned me, even the fashion bits. That strategy seemed to work, as several days went by without his making confetti of one of my stories. The gaps between my interactions with Ned stretched out too, until one Friday night, I saw him leaving with that sunny redheaded telephone operator I’d met my first day in the city. I experienced only the teeniest, tiniest twinge. The bigger twinge came when I learned that Ned was not only wooing someone else, but being wooed by the Chicago Tribune. I heard about it late one afternoon from Gill. Or rather, I overheard it. He threw a bone of encouragement to the pack of hopefuls ever waiting for their break. “Hold fast, you bright young men. Kirk may be leaving for another sheet. The Chicago Tribune.”

“That so?” Ace joined the conversation.

Gill yanked a story from his typewriter. “Boy!” One of the office boys came running and took it to the copy reader. “He really got their attention with that idea for a series on women in the work world. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on his way up,” he continued.

Ace cleared his throat and jerked his head my way.

“Oh, sorry, Hattie.” Gill ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t think—”

I pasted a smile on my face. “Guess we’ll have to take up a collection for him. Get him a nice going-away present.”

“Yeah,” Gill agreed halfheartedly. He glanced over at me. “Any ideas?”

“I know just what we could get him,” Miss D’Lacorte called over.

“What?” Ace asked.

“A new knife.” She pointed a red-painted fingernail at me. “He seems to have left his old one in Hattie’s back.”

Ace and Gill both chuckled and got back to work. Miss D’Lacorte plunked herself down on the corner of my desk.

“I will not beat around the bush.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “You, my young friend, do not look happy.”

“Of course I’m happy.”

She pursed her lips. “Your fingers may be happy. Your hair may be happy. For all I know, even your knees are happy.”

Her silliness got a smile out of me. “Sounds like I’m one big bucket of happiness.”

“There’s a hole in that bucket.” She leaned in toward me. “The eyes.”

I picked up a stack of papers on my desk, tap-tapping them into a squared-up sheaf. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do I, most of the time.” She kicked off her pumps and swung her legs as she sat, causing my already unstable desk to sway. “But one thing I do know: this job isn’t everything.”

“I know that,” I said.

“Oh, really.” Her legs stopped midswing, and she raised her left eyebrow. “Name one thing you’ve done for fun lately.”

I continued cleaning off my desk. She didn’t move from her perch.

“I went to the newsboys’ picnic.”

“That was work.” She crossed her arms. “Not play. And whatever happened to that nice airplane mechanic?”

I leaned over to put the cover on my typewriter. A tear splashed on it.

Miss D’Lacorte slid off the desk and back into her shoes. “I need a steak and am tired of dining alone. We are going out to dinner.” When she saw that I had my mouth open to protest, she held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Get your coat.”

It was pointless to argue with Marjorie D’Lacorte. That much I’d learned since arriving at the Chronicle. I had to admit I would not mind skipping my usual tin of soup. “Dutch treat,” I said.

“Your money’s no good where we’re going. So don’t argue.” She slipped into a navy flannel coat with a fur collar. “And tonight you call me Marjorie. Don’t argue about that, either.”

I didn’t.

We walked through the crisp evening air, passing businessmen carrying briefcases and umbrellas, and ladies of the house with packages tumbling out of their arms. Soon we were in a part of the city that was new to me. Tall, narrow homes huddled together on the street like Aunt Ivy and her cronies at a coffee klatch. As we walked, I learned that Miss D’Lacorte—Marjorie—had an older brother, Tom, who’d been a pilot in the war. “When he turned up missing, I joined the Red Cross to find him. That’s how I got in the reporting business. Sending dispatches home.”

“So you found him?” I asked.

Her gloved hand rested in front of her mouth. “I did.” After a moment, she continued. “Do you know what he’d done? Named his plane after me.” She cleared her throat. I waited for more of the story but it didn’t come.

Her pocketbook clicked open and she dabbed her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. “I’ve worked for lots of sheets. Chicago. Kansas City. Seattle, too. At the Times.” She tucked her handkerchief away. “Now, there’s an editor for you: C. B. Blethen. Cannot abide females in the newsroom.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.” She gave a low chuckle. “Too bad I was their best reporter. Oh, did that give him conniptions.” She took my arm, turning me to face the opposite side of the street. “Thar she blows.” She pointed to a very elegant-looking restaurant.

We crossed over, stepped inside, and were quickly seated. I tried to stay upright when I read the menu prices. When the waiter came, I ordered a small salad and cup of soup.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Marjorie slapped her hand on the crisp white tablecloth. “Forget that nonsense. Bring us two steaks. With the works.” The waiter seemed to know her, because very quickly a glass was set in front of her, two olives bobbing in a clear liquid. I was brought a ginger ale. Marjorie lifted her glass. “To you, Hattie.” We clinked, then she sipped and sighed. “Ambrosia.”

Dinner was delicious, but Marjorie’s stories were even better. Some were hard to believe—could she really have danced with General Pershing?—but I didn’t care. The evening was flying by delightfully, and without my once touching a can opener.

Dessert was apple pie. À la mode. I wouldn’t need to eat for a week. “This is all so wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

She took one small taste of her pie, then slid the plate aside. “Your life is none of my business, of course. But let me offer some uninvited advice.” She chuckled. “I suppose most advice falls in that category.”

I swallowed and put my full attention on her. Advice from a seasoned reporter would be welcome, invited or not.

“This is a hard row you’re hoeing, Hattie Brooks. I should know. I’ve been down it myself.” She wet her finger to pick a crumb of crust off her dessert plate.

“I have to pay my dues. I know that.” Though how many more column inches I could type about hemlines and hairstyles, I wasn’t sure.

She studied me. “I’m not talking about the newspaper.”

I frowned, puzzled. “I don’t follow you.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

It seemed as if she were speaking in code and I didn’t have the key. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve missed something.”

“I think you have, too.” She leaned toward me. “I saw your face when you were with your mechanic at the airfield that day. Saw his, too.” She whistled. “You seemed pretty glad to see him when you landed.”

“We’re good friends.” The restaurant had grown stuffy. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“I could see that.” Her eyes twinkled and I flushed. “You’re pretty lucky to have a good friend like that. Not like some of the other men we know.”

I studied my dessert plate, fully aware she was referring to Ned. “There’s probably no one kinder than Charlie. But he wanted to make plans for us.” I rested my chin on my hands. “And I need to make plans for me.”

The waiter slipped the bill on the table. “And his plans and your plans don’t mesh?” Marjorie asked.

“I can’t get married!” I took a sip of ginger ale. “Besides, he’s moving to Alaska.”

She studied me. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

I couldn’t believe it. Here I thought she had taken me out to dinner to give me a pep talk. “Miss—I mean, Marjorie. You know how hard it is in this business, especially if you’re a woman. But a married woman?” I shook my head at the thought of that complication.

She glanced at the bill and opened her handbag. “If you are looking for someone to emulate, I am not that person.”

Melted ice cream dribbled off my piece of pie onto the plate. I poked at it with my fork, but now had lost all taste for its sweetness.

She stood.

I could not forget my manners. “Thank you. It was delicious.”

“You can find your way home from here?” she asked. “I’m around the corner.”

No wonder the waiter had known what to bring her. “Yes, I’m fine.” Well, I wasn’t fine, but that was no call to be rude.

“Hazel Archibald,” she said as we stepped outside.

“Pardon?”

“Hazel Archibald. Works at the Seattle Times. She’s married.” Marjorie finished buttoning her coat. “See you tomorrow.”

I watched her walk away, reflecting on the evening. I now regretted the rich dinner sitting heavily in a stomach accustomed to one of Campbell’s twenty-one varieties of canned soup. My heart was heavy, too. Why did Miss D’Lacorte have to bring up Charlie? It had taken all of my willpower to write back, and wish him well, after his letter. Why should it bother me that he was going after his dream? I’d expected him to allow me to go after mine.

And what of that dream? Sure, I had a job at the Chronicle. But I was no Nellie Bly, Grand Adventurer, Great Writer. Never would be. I was not even a Marjorie D’Lacorte. I was only Hattie.

I blinked back tears, longing for Ruby and her understanding heart. If only I could talk to her. She would help me figure out what to do. If only she weren’t in Santa Clara …

Wait. Why couldn’t I go to her? I began to walk faster. Ruby had been so kind to me; the very least I could do was spell her as she cared for Pearl. I had money saved up. Well, saved up for a trip north. But I wasn’t sure I had the gumption for Seattle right now. I needed to feel useful, to think about someone besides myself. That was the ticket!

I knew I was on the right track with my thinking when I found the feather. A heavenly sign in answer to an unspoken prayer. And this was some feather, with its shiny coral shaft; it was that stunning color that had caught my eye. The pattern on the vane put me to mind of an appliquéd quilt block, as if an autumn oak leaf had pressed itself onto a shell pink feather. I picked it up, imagining the bird it had once adorned. It must be magnificent. Gill was a bit of a bird fancier; maybe he would be able to tell me about this feather. I slipped it into my pocketbook, feeling more chipper by the moment, even lighthearted enough to indulge in some window-shopping. I passed a milliner’s and peeked in. Inside the hat shop, a woman was trying on an enormous hat. She was redheaded and petite, like Ruby. Very like Ruby.

The evening had definitely taken a toll on me. I rubbed my temple. Ruby was at her mother’s, caring for Pearl. This must be wishful thinking on my part. Then my redhead stepped into better light and I came to a dead stop on the sidewalk.

This wasn’t someone who simply looked like Ruby. It was Ruby! But that was impossible.

I could not breathe. Could not move.

The woman sashayed to the cash register to count out bills to pay the clerk. No doubt some of them from my cold cream jar. And there she was, pretty as pie, using them to buy a hat. An extremely ugly hat.

My dinner now threatened to spill itself over the sidewalk. I swallowed hard, stumbling blindly down the street. Ruby. Here. What did it mean?

It wasn’t until I was back in my room, trembling on the bed that it hit me. The feather was not the sign I’d prayed for.

It was Ruby in that horrid hat.