Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt Page 10

  “He’s got a line on a teaching job,” she murmured back.

  “Now that we’re all here . . .” Iris clapped her hands to begin the meeting. Ellen tuned out the woman’s praise for the group’s overall efforts and disappointment that one or two were falling behind in their assignments. Mae Swenson sniffled at that. A general restlessness in the room stopped Iris from saying more. Abruptly concluding her remarks, she began to hand out the checks.

  Ellen tucked hers into the satchel, planning to open an account at the Bright bank and send a check to her brother with instructions to put it toward buying a baby carriage or bassinet. Her father may have refused her offer to send money to the family, but he couldn’t complain if it was meant for the baby.

  “Hey, Jess.” She stopped him at the door. “How’s Aunt Sissy?”

  He grimaced. “About what I expected. But I played baseball one night with the fellas in Boxley, and the interviews have been okay.”

  “That’s good. I wanted to ask you about the town newspaper. Does it have all the old papers in storage?”

  “Sure. Every year is bound up in oversize volumes. Mr. Calley, the owner and editor, is very particular about that. I’m on my way over to see him. He sent a note to the house saying he wants me to stop by as soon as possible. Come with me.”

  Ellen matched his stride. The newspaper building sat in the middle of the block on the square’s north side. As they crossed the street, Jess cocked his head back toward the courthouse. “I heard Mrs. Hewitt say something to you about the interview with old Miss Vine.”

  “I was worried because it wasn’t very long, but Mrs. Hewitt was happy I got anything at all.”

  Once they reached the far sidewalk, Jess stopped. “When we were kids, Miss Vine always seemed like a scary old woman. Not exactly a witch—you know how kids make things up—but somebody you stayed clear of. Nobody ever took the dare to go past that wrought-iron fence and right into her yard. There were all sorts of stories about what would happen if you were caught.”

  He seemed to shiver, just remembering. “Then, I’m down in Boxley interviewing this man named Simmons. Nice old gent. I ask him what he and his friends did for fun when they were my age. He starts telling me about living here in Opal’s Grove before he married this girl from Boxley. He talked about parties at the Vine house. He said Nettie Vine was the belle of the ball.” Jess shook his head, as if he still found that difficult to believe. “Anyway, after Simmons tells me he had a crush on her, he says something kind of odd.”

  “About Miss Vine?” Ellen held her breath.

  “Yeah. He said that for all her good-natured high spirits, she was ‘nutty.’ That was the word he used. I didn’t know if I should leave that in, seeing as how it’s sort of an insult to Miss Vine, so I asked Mrs. Hewitt. She told me to delete it.”

  “Did he say exactly why she was nutty?”

  “That’s the other part I took out. Mr. Simmons said he and another fella got into an argument over who would sit beside Nettie at one of her ice cream parties. And she said they’d settle it with a duel. She ran into the house and came out with a couple of her father’s pistols. Simmons thought it was a joke, but when he checked the chamber of the one she handed him, he saw it was loaded.”

  Jess held a hand over his heart. “So help me, that’s what he said. He never went to the Vine house again.”

  Ellen leaned in close as Jess opened the door for her. “I’ll tell you a secret, Jess. I believe it, and you’re not the only one to delete something. Miss Vine said unkind things about some people she knew long ago. If those were printed, it might cause hurt feelings. I took them out of the interview, but I didn’t ask Mrs. Hewitt for permission.”

  Ellen stepped into the newspaper office. It was much as she expected. The secretary seated behind the counter glanced up, smiled, and continued typing. A middle-aged man sitting at a desk waved in their direction as he continued taking notes over the phone. A few feet away, a woman of indeterminate age and a bad permanent wave pounded away on her typewriter.

  Jess walked around one end of the counter, motioning Ellen to follow him up a wrought-iron staircase. At the top of the stairs, Jess yanked a thumb toward a closed door to the left. “Dell Hamilton works in there. He’s the accountant.”

  “I interviewed his mother. I liked her very much.”

  “Yeah, she’s a nice lady.” Jess turned to the right and knocked at the door with the name Grover Calley stenciled in black.

  From behind the door a voice boomed, “Go away.”

  “He always says that. Likes to make people think he’s cantankerous.” Jess laughed and opened the door, motioning Ellen in. “Hello. Got your note. Oh, and this is Ellen Hartley. She’s doing some of the interviews and wants to see the morgue.”

  The editor was in his shirtsleeves. An electric fan on a side table ruffled the man’s white-blond mane of hair. He took off a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses and nodded to Ellen before turning his full attention on Jess. “Glad you got here. Got something I want to talk about.”

  Ellen started backing out of the room, but the man told her to stay. His business with Jess should only take a couple of minutes.

  “Now, here’s the deal.” Calley leaned back in his desk chair. “I was talking to a friend at the Kansas City Star. He’s sending his two best sportswriters to Berlin for the Olympics, and he’s going to be shorthanded. He’s going to take on some stringers, and I suggested you.”

  Ellen realized that for the first time since she’d met Jess, he was speechless. She stepped up beside him and gave him a poke with an elbow. “Snap out of it! This is a wonderful break for you.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Calley, sir.” The words came out in a stutter that the editor ignored.

  “Now, here’s what I want you to do. The eastbound train leaves at 1:30. It’ll get you to Kansas City in time to meet this fellow.”

  Calley stood. He pulled a money clip out of a trouser pocket, counted out some bills, and handed them to Jess. “This should pay for the train ticket and your expenses for staying overnight. I don’t want to hear that you spent it on booze or women.” The man didn’t crack a smile.

  Calley leaned over the desk, jotting down some information. “This is who you’re going to see and the newspaper’s address. This,” he said as he finished writing on another piece of paper, “is the telegram you send before you get on the train. It will let my friend know you’re on your way.”

  Jess took the papers, staring from one to the other.

  “Well, get going!” Calley yelled.

  Jess stumbled from the room in disbelief.

  Ellen turned back to the editor as Jess’s pounding steps echoed on the stairs. “That was a very nice thing to do.”

  Calley ignored the remark. “You wanted to look at some of the old editions in the morgue?”

  Ellen was about to say she could come back at a more convenient time, but Calley was already taking his gray suit jacket off a coat rack in the corner and jamming his arms through the sleeves. He glanced at himself in the small mirror hanging on the back wall and patted his hair in place.

  “It’s not vanity. You show your respect for others when you try to look your best for them.”

  Ellen was too surprised at this bit of homespun philosophy to respond.

  “So, you want to see the old papers. Doing research?” Satisfied with his appearance, he walked around the desk and motioned Ellen toward the door.

  “I suppose you could say that. The interviews this week have made me curious.”

  He gave her a glance before leading her out of the office. She followed him down the stairs and around a corner to a door opening to the back of the building, past a linotype machine and the printing press, past the worktable where a man was laying out an ad for used cars, and past a gigantic roll of newsprint. Through another door was the morgue, stacked with every edition of the Dobbs County paper. Each year was bound in dark leather.

  “Ever been in a newspape
r office?” Calley asked suddenly.

  “I worked on the college paper and visited the printing plant a couple of times,” Ellen answered, hoping she didn’t sound like she was showing off. Calley didn’t seem to be the sort of person to put up with braggadocio.

  “Guess you want to be a reporter. Seems like I get thirty or so letters every year from people who want a job, and I don’t have any work. I can barely afford to keep this place going.”

  He gave Ellen a long stare to ensure he had her attention. “My granddad started this paper when this town wasn’t much more than a few houses and a railroad depot. My dad kept it going. Now it’s my turn, but it’s tough. Do you know what happens in a Depression? People stop buying subscriptions. I lose money from advertisers because they close their businesses, or if they stay open, they don’t buy ads like they used to.”

  Ellen knew all this, but it had been an abstraction. Calley and his troubles made it real, and the odds of her finding a reporter’s job looked dismal. She didn’t tell him hers had been one of the thirty or so letters he’d gotten in the past year.

  Walking into the morgue, Calley indicated a table and chair in one corner.

  “Those oversized volumes aren’t easy to handle. If you have trouble, ask Maynard. He’s the one out there at the worktable.”

  As Ellen began to thank him, the man turned on his heel and left. She laid the satchel to one side of the table and began to scan the shelves. She was looking for 1869. Agatha’s story had piqued her curiosity. She carefully moved editions off a shelf until she could extract the one she wanted. By the time she finished moving the heavy volumes, her white blouse and navy skirt were smeared with flakes of old leather and decades of dust.

  “Wonderful, just wonderful,” she muttered, trying to flick some of the dirt off her skirt.

  She sat and began to page through the volume until she came to April. She scanned each page, looking for the first mention of the Bright marriage while she got a flavor of the town that greeted Agatha when she arrived.

  Her eye caught an advertisement, and Ellen smiled with delight. There, in the upper right-hand corner of page four, among advertisements for ointments and elixirs, bonnets, pianos, and plows, was a small ad announcing Ivy Williams offering her services as a seamstress. Inquiries could be made at the Archer Store. Ellen ran a finger around the advertisement’s boxed outline. She imagined a seventeen-year-old Ivy walking into the newspaper office with a determined step and putting coins on the counter to buy the advertising space.

  The paper had a predictable format. The society news of ladies’ meetings, attendance at the literary society, and who had traveled out of town was always on page three, and that’s where she came upon the first mention of Thomas and Agatha Bright. It was a small paragraph tucked between a report on the last meeting of the Methodist Ladies Club and the names of children attending a birthday party. The marriage announcement was short and to the point, with the barest of particulars. Ellen was disappointed. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but this was a letdown.

  She moved to the next issue and then the next. Finally, she found what she’d hoped for. In a story several paragraphs long, details of the newlyweds’ reception were captured for posterity. The reporter painted a picture of blazing candles casting a honey-toned light on the entire party, with an extravagant buffet of hearty fare and any number of hard-to-find delicacies. The groom’s parents, noted the article, beamed. The new husband had the look of a happy man. As for the bride, the writer could not say enough about her gracious charm and beauty.

  Ellen smiled. If the writer’s enthusiasm was any indication, Agatha made a brilliant impression on the people of Opal’s Grove.

  She reread the article before glancing over the other society news, stopping abruptly. Near the bottom of the page, a single line reported that Mrs. Opal Vine and daughter had departed for an extended visit with Eastern relatives.

  Ellen drummed her fingers on the table, rolling this over in her mind. Rather than stay in town for a glittering social affair, Nettie and her mother left. Perhaps a family member was gravely ill back in Philadelphia. Maybe there had been a death. The snippet didn’t say, which Ellen thought odd since the paper seemed to report every detail about any little happening. Of one thing, Ellen was sure. Mother and daughter left in the spring of 1869 and returned in the fall, when Nettie enjoyed her own welcome-home party.

  Ellen paged through the volume, slowing when she came to October. It took a few minutes before she found the write-up of the evening Nettie had described. Much was said about the food, the drink, and the musicians brought all the way from Kansas City, but Ellen detected a slight contrast in tone from the description of Agatha’s welcome to the town. While the writer had fairly gushed in that article, there was a note of restraint in this one.

  Still wondering about the differences, Ellen put the volume away and took out the one for the next year. She wanted to see what the paper said about Ivy’s wedding. She intended to go straight to May of 1870 but found herself caught up in the earlier issues and their reports of events in Opal’s Grove. Another group of Swedish immigrants had arrived in the county. A children’s choir was being formed at the Methodist Church, and the Baptist Sunday School was rehearsing an Easter program. A cartload of pigs overturned, sending the animals in a squealing rush across the courthouse grounds and into several businesses, including the millinery shop, where a woman fainted when confronted by a boar blocking the aisle.

  Ellen stifled a laugh while chiding herself. She didn’t have time to read each issue, but it was addictive. She turned the pages, forcing herself not to stop, but then another article caught her eye. It recounted a “delightful recital given by one of the town’s most gracious and accomplished young matrons.” Ellen knew it was irrational, but she felt a proprietary pride in Agatha Bright.

  Ellen resolutely moved on. Finally, she found the write-up of Ivy’s wedding. It was brief, but the reporter must have had some affection for the couple. Ivy was described as the “town’s well-liked seamstress” and Wheaton Hamilton as a “progressive rancher.” Ellen sat and thought about the couple beginning their lives together, as she absently turned pages back to earlier issues. Just as she started to close the volume, another paragraph in the society column caught her eye. A month earlier, Mrs. Sylvester Vine and daughter had once again boarded a train for the East. The writer alluded to a sickness in the family but gave no details. Again, Ellen wondered about the Vine women and their travels.

  Ellen checked her watch. She really had to go. She had one more thing to do before returning to Miss Jewell’s. The idea had been percolating since she’d seen what Mr. Calley had done for Jess. After shelving the volume, she walked to the front and stopped to speak to the secretary, who was just preparing to leave for lunch. “Is Mr. Calley still in?” she asked. “I just want a quick minute of his time.”

  The secretary glanced at an oversized wall clock. “He’ll go home for lunch soon, but you have time to go up.” The woman gave Ellen a warm smile. “But first, you’ll want to duck into the washroom and wipe that smudge of dirt off your face.”

  “Thank you.” Ellen raised a hand to one cheek and followed the woman’s directions to a small restroom tucked under the stairs.

  She washed her face and ran a comb through her hair before climbing the metal stairs. If she didn’t do this now, she wasn’t sure she’d have the courage later.

  She knocked on the closed door, ignored Mr. Calley’s shout to “go away,” and walked in.

  He glanced up and then back to the papers in front of him. “Find what you wanted?”

  Ellen thanked him. “Mr. Calley”—she took a breath—“Jess got me thinking about being a stringer. I wonder if you know of any editors I might apply to.”

  Calley took off his glasses. His expression was dour. “Depends on what you’re capable of writing. If it’s the ladies’ page or society beat, forget it. There are too many angling for those spots already.”

 
; “Those don’t really interest me,” Ellen answered. “I could show you my clippings.” Her portfolio was back at the boardinghouse, under her bed with her typewriter.

  The man grumbled, running a hand across his face. Ellen was sure he was about to turn her away.

  “No, forget the clippings. Show me what you can do.” He sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

  “We’re going to start publishing some of the interviews you folks have been doing, but it’s got to have some context. I need a lead article that explains the background of the WPA project. Iris Hewitt gave me a write-up, but I doubt Iris has all of her facts straight. And her writing leaves a lot to be desired. Bring me something I can use. Then we’ll talk stringer.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Calley.” Her smile was so big, her cheeks ached. “I’ll have it on your desk Monday morning.” She took the stairs with a bounce in her step.

  Smiling at the woman at the desk, she left the building already writing the article in her head.

  “Hey, girl! You there!”

  She stopped with a jolt. Nettie Vine was pointing her parasol in Ellen’s direction and walking toward her as fast as her pointed-toe shoes would allow.

  Nettie drew up in front of Ellen, slightly out of breath. “I’ve been looking for you. You’re that girl that came and talked to me.”

  Ellen nodded.

  “And you talked to Ivy Hamilton and Agatha Bright. I know you did; don’t lie.”

  Nettie’s voice rolled over Ellen’s protest that there was no reason to lie. “They probably said awful things about me. Never liked me. Well, I could tell a few things about them, too. I’d wager Agatha never mentioned I was the one that should have married her precious Thomas.” The woman stopped to take a breath.

  Ellen was speechless, aware of the stares from passersby. They were spared another diatribe when a harried Mrs. Castle appeared, slipping one arm around Nettie’s waist.

  “I’m so sorry. I just turned my back for a minute, and she was out of the house. She’s been doing that quite a bit lately. Haven’t you, dear?” She patted Nettie’s back, gently propelling her toward the Ford automobile Ellen had seen earlier at the Vine mansion. Nettie allowed herself to be maneuvered into the front seat.