Chapter 8
The next morning, I dressed in my favorite of Betty’s dresses—a baby-blue belted sheath with the slightest of flared ruffles at the bottom.
It fit like it was made for me—Betty was three inches taller than I was, and I begrudged her every one of those inches, except when I wore this dress, which didn’t hit at her waist and made her look boxy.
Though I was sure she would prefer boxy to her current shape.
Poor Betty. It didn’t matter how many cigarettes she smoked or how much coffee she drank—all at her doctor’s orders—when she was pregnant, she just couldn’t help gaining weight.
Her best friend, Gertie, had proudly gained only seven pounds with each of her babies.
Betty had come home inconsolable after her last appointment when the doctor had told her she was up a whopping twelve pounds.
Watching my sister go through that didn’t exactly make pregnancy seem appealing.
Yes, I would likely have babies someday.
But I wasn’t in any rush to lose my own figure.
Or freedom. Or chance to make it as a journalist. No, I didn’t know that I would choose work over having a family as Helen Thomas had.
I wasn’t opposed to either option—as long as they were my options.
And after I had slept on it, Jack Fields was about to learn that I was a woman who absolutely made her own choices.
I wished I had the matching hat to go with the dress, but Betty had given me a strong talking-to about taking her things after discovering her pink pillbox missing.
Which was rather ironic considering the lecture was given as she was packing up the clothes that now constituted my work wardrobe for “storage” purposes.
But what Betty didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
And while my mother had to know I didn’t have permission to wear her clothes, she said nothing that morning as I went to leave for work, only straightened my collar, kissed my cheek, and told me to go meet an eligible man.
She would probably loan me her own jewelry, which had been strictly off limits since I borrowed some for a formal sorority event in college, if it would help me catch a husband.
I had returned it all intact; she was just miffed I hadn’t asked first. But if I had asked, the answer would have been no, and I preferred to beg for forgiveness than be denied permission.
Another newspaper sat on my typewriter when I arrived, a note paper clipped to it.
I picked it up in a gloved hand—thankfully Betty was running too hot to wear gloves this summer, and I had pointed out that drawer space was about to become precious with three children in the house. “You’re my lucky charm,” the note read.
I felt my jaw tighten. My favorite journalism professor liked to say, “The harder you work, the luckier you get.” So yes, I was his lucky charm because I worked hard. He, on the other hand, could go take a flying leap into the Potomac River.
In concrete shoes.
I balled the note up and dropped it in the wastepaper basket next to my desk.
But I did slip the newspaper into my handbag.
It may not have been my name on the article, but it was my work.
That lead was all me. The third paragraph, where I had restructured the description of the Bay of Pigs into something more palatable to both the casual reader and the experienced newshound.
The way I had cut the unimportant part of one quote to blend it with one used lower down to complete a thought effectively.
If I squinted enough, that J for Jack in the byline could almost be for Judy.
I might vindictively cross out Fields’s name, but I wasn’t going to throw it away.
More of the typing pool came by to introduce themselves when they took smoke breaks throughout the morning.
I wasn’t sure if it was the support of Miss Kelly, the fact that I got the room to laugh, or if they just wanted front-row seats when I eviscerated Jack Fields later, but I would take any camaraderie I could get.
Sure enough, just after eleven, Fields came striding back into the room, a smile on his face as he slapped his pages down on my desk.
I continued typing and ignored him. But the collective sound of keys slowed to a near stop around me. He cleared his throat, and I continued to type.
“Hey, Judy,” he said, crouching down to be at my level.
“Miss Greenberg,” I corrected coolly. I still hadn’t looked up at him and definitely made a typo as I saw him tilt his head like a confused puppy in my peripheral vision.
I didn’t actually care that I would have to retype the article I was working on, but I didn’t want him to notice that he had caused the error.
“Right,” he said. From the corner of my eye, I saw him put a hand to the back of his neck. “Miss Greenberg.” He leaned in closer. “I’ve got a doozy of an article for you today.”
“Do you?” I asked, conveying as little interest as I could in my voice. “I suggest you put it on the board. If no one else takes it, I may later.”
“I—what? No. You don’t—” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “This one is extremely sensitive. I need a professional set of eyes on it.”
I pulled the paper from my typewriter roll, putting it on the corner of my desk like I was going to turn it in, not throw it away and redo it, and finally turned in my seat to face him.
“Mr. Fields, I believe they have editors upstairs who are paid to fill that role. Unless, of course, you want them to think that my work is yours?”
He colored slightly. “I—you heard about . . . that?”
“I did.”
“It’s—it’s a testament to you, actually, if you think about it. They couldn’t find a single edit that needed to be made.”
“Except you said it was a testament to your own work.” I leveled him with a withering glare, fully aware that the whole typing pool was straining to hear us. “And quite frankly, I’ve seen better leads than yours in a high school newspaper.”
He stood up, towering over me at my desk. “I’ll have you know—”
“Mr. Fields—in the future, if you’d like my help, ask for it. I work for Miss Kelly, not you. And there’s a reason we have a system in the typing pool. I suggest you use it from now on.”
He stared at me for a long moment, but I stood my ground. If I were a man, I would have taken his job already. But I wasn’t. And this was the best I could do—which, thanks to Miss Kelly, was more than most women in the workplace could say.
“Right,” he said eventually. “I—I’m sorry.” But he still stood there, paper on my desk, as if he expected that to fix the situation.
I inclined my head toward his article. “As I said, that belongs on the board.”
“But didn’t you just finish—”
“Is anyone ready to go to lunch?” I asked the office, every head of which was turned in our direction.
For a few seconds, no one responded. “I’ll go,” a girl who had introduced herself as Linda said, standing up.
Patricia rose next. “Don’t go without me,” she said.
“I’m ready,” Carol added.
I smiled at him as patronizingly as I could. “I suggest you put it on the board, Mr. Fields. I’ll be a while.”
And with that, I took my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk and swept past him, my new friends following.