Chapter 5
Back at the office, I resumed grabbing stories from the board and typing them until I noticed that the sound of typewriters had ceased.
I got to the end of the line I was on and looked up to see the girls packing their things in unison.
A quick glance at the clock on the wall—I would have to see if Betty had a watch she wouldn’t miss—told me it was the end of the day.
Then the building began to shake in earnest. Nothing like the mild rumblings I had felt off and on all day. This couldn’t be the presses. It was an earthquake. I grabbed on to my desk for dear life, wondering if I was supposed to hide under it or if that was just for nuclear threats.
I was peering underneath to see if I could fit without ruining my stockings when I heard Patricia laugh.
“It’s just the presses,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”
“How does the building stay standing with this kind of shaking?” I asked, straightening.
“Good question. But it hasn’t fallen yet, so I doubt it will today.” She peeked over at my typewriter. “That one doesn’t have to be done until tomorrow. You can finish it in the morning.”
“Is that allowed?”
She smiled. “It’s up to you, of course. But there’s no overtime. And Miss Kelly isn’t rewarding you for working late—though she will dock you if you don’t arrive on time tomorrow.”
“Good to know,” I said, looking around to see if other girls had left articles half finished in their typewriters or if they stored them somewhere.
The typewriter seemed to be the place of choice, which did make sense—you would have to start from scratch if you pulled it out or it would never line up perfectly.
“Do you have plans tonight?”
I studied her profile, wondering if she lived at home with her parents too. I doubted it because she had talked about spending time in motels. My parents would actually die if I did something like that. And they would be sure to take me with them.
“No. I have to get home for dinner or my parents will worry.”
Patricia chuckled, but there was no malice in it. “You’re going to want to fix that situation in a hurry. Come on, doll. I’ll walk out with you.” In the elevator, she put a hand on my arm. “Let me know if you need a recommendation for a doctor.”
“A doctor?”
“Diaphragm,” she whispered. “You do not want to wind up like poor Louise.”
I honestly wasn’t sure which would kill my mother quicker—finding a diaphragm in my drawer or me coming home in Louise’s condition.
Then again, I wasn’t sure she knew what a diaphragm was.
She would probably use it as a bathtub stopper when she bathed Betty’s kids.
I grinned at the idea of Betty discovering her children bathing with a birth control device.
“I’m okay for now,” I said. “But I’ll let you know if that changes.”
Patricia shrugged. “Just try to steer clear of the editors. They’re all married, and none of them are leaving their wives, no matter what they tell you in the heat of the moment.” She cocked her head. “We all speak from experience on that one.”
“All? But Miss Kelly—”
“Made that rule for a reason,” Patricia finished. “Look, we were all green once. You should have seen me when I first got here.”
“Where are you from?” She didn’t have a discernible accent, and I had trouble picturing her as “green.”
“Carroll County,” she said, naming an extremely rural area of Maryland about an hour and a half north of the District.
“So when you said I was fresh off the farm—?”
Patricia let out a merry peal of laughter.
“Born and raised. And took off the first chance I got.” She spread her arms wide as we stepped out of the building into the early evening heat of June in DC.
“And look at me now. As city as they come. I haven’t milked a cow in six years, and I never plan to again. ”
I tried to picture this cosmopolitan young woman, with her sleekly bobbed hair, fashionable dress, perfect button nose, and talk of obtaining birth control without a husband, milking a cow. It was a jarring contrast to be sure.
But I told her I would see her in the morning and made my way toward the bus stop, tired but content. I was on my way.
“Fields isn’t a Jewish name,” my mother moaned over dinner. “Didn’t you meet any other men?”
I sighed, my appetite vanishing rapidly. If I told her about my conversation with Patricia, she would stop asking—though she would also forbid me from leaving the house again, so that tactic would backfire too.
“It was my first day,” I said. “I need to actually do my work, so I have a job at which to meet men.” The smell of onions wafted over from a dish at the end of the table, jogging my memory. “Oh—I did meet a Jewish man today.”
“You did?” My mother beamed. “Tell me all about him.”
“Daddy, he knows you—we went to Duke Zeibert’s for lunch. He says hello to you—and Uncle Gil.”
My mother’s face turned thunderous. “Duke Zeibert is older than me and married,” she said. “You know perfectly well what I was asking, young lady.”
My father held up a hand, his face far more indulgent, and my mother stopped. “Duke’s is actually a respectable place to meet someone far more successful than a journalist,” he said. “Not the most frugal of lunch options though.”
“Who cares about frugal if she meets a wealthy man there?”
“I walked right past Jack Kent Cooke,” I said, seizing on my mother’s enthusiasm. If lunch gave them reason enough for me to keep working—and perhaps with some extra pocket money slipped into my purse for meals—I was willing to milk that for all it was worth.
“Psh, a goy,” my mother sighed, lamenting that he wasn’t Jewish.
“The richest goy in the city,” my father said, and I watched a debate play out across my mother’s face. I considered pointing out that he was also older than my mother. And married. But none of that would help my case.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I was going to pack myself a sandwich for tomorrow. You’re right, Daddy. I should be more frugal.”
“Not so fast,” my mother said, as expected. “We can spare a little money for lunches.”
I hid a smile behind my water glass. This was easier than I had thought. If I didn’t have to spend my own money on lunch, that women’s boardinghouse got closer by the day.