Chapter 11
Monday morning, I was about to go catch the bus when my father told me to wait. I glanced at the door impatiently. Waiting could mean the difference between being early and being late, and a conversation that needed to happen before I left the house was never a good sign.
But he merely set his coffee down, took his sports coat from the back of his chair, kissed my mother goodbye, and said, “I’ll drive you. It’s only a little out of my way.”
His office was up in Woodley Park, which was actually a long drive from The Digest in rush hour traffic, but I wouldn’t turn down a ride. I hadn’t seen cat-food woman again, but the rest of the people who rode my bus to work were not a dramatic improvement.
“So,” he said as we took Sixteenth Street down into the city, “work is going well?”
Unlike with my mother, I could be a little more honest with him. “It’s a little . . . repetitive,” I said. “I’m just typing all day. For now.”
“Do you think they’ll let you write your own articles soon?”
“I don’t know.” The raw honesty in my voice surprised even me. “But I’m going to try my best.”
“Good. Your mother—” He cleared his throat, and I looked at his profile in the car.
I had my mother’s nose, jawline, and chin, but my father and I shared our wide brown eyes, pale skin, and dark hair.
Betty and I were like a negative image that way.
She had my father’s nose and face shape but my mother’s reddish hair, freckles, and hazel eyes.
Yet we somehow still looked enough alike that no one ever questioned if we were sisters.
“Your mother wanted you at your uncle’s office so he’d look out for you. You know how—men—can be—and . . .”
I didn’t like where this was going one bit.
“I’m there to work,” I said firmly. “I plan to be a reporter, and no one is going to derail that.”
He swallowed visibly. “Some men aren’t good at taking no for an answer.”
We stopped at a light, and he didn’t look over at me. “Dad, I may be small, but I am scrappy as hell, and you know it.”
“Language,” he said reflexively, but his posture loosened slightly.
“Listen—a reporter had me edit his work and tried to take credit for it. You’d better believe I put him in his place.”
He finally smiled. “I do believe you did just that.” Then he flipped on the radio, eliminating the need for a further awkward conversation.
When we finally pulled up to The Digest’s office on L Street, I went to get out of the car and thanked him. “You don’t have to drive me in the mornings,” I told him. “I know you would have cut through Rock Creek Park to get to the office if you hadn’t.”
His head tilted. “I would have. But then I wouldn’t have gotten time with you. I won’t be able to drive you if I have any early appointments, but I don’t mind saving you the bus fare when I don’t. Now go give those reporters hell.”
“Language,” I said with a smile.
My father winked. “I’d assume you hear worse than that in a newsroom.”
I was grinning when I walked in.
But when I got to the third floor, Miss Kelly was standing at my desk.
It was still ten minutes to eight, so I wasn’t late.
Fields, I thought. She had told me she would back me whatever I decided, but that either hadn’t extended to my tirade last week or else someone above her had heard I was editing and wasn’t happy.
“Miss Kelly,” I said with a nod. Maybe this was nothing.
“You’re up on seven today.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Pullman’s secretary is ill, and he needs a girl from the typing pool to fill in.”
George Pullman was a managing editor. And in theory, if he warmed to me, this could be my chance.
But I also had zero secretarial training and hadn’t a clue of what I would be expected to do. The thrill of the typing pool had worn off within days, but at least I understood the work and it was journalism adjacent. This was far outside my area of expertise.
“Wouldn’t one of the girls who completed secretarial school be—?”
“Do you see them here?” she asked curtly.
“He needs someone now. You’ll answer phone calls and take messages—unless it’s Mr. Worthington or Mrs. Pullman, he is unavailable.
Type any memos he dictates, show people who have meetings on the book into his office, and fetch his coffee.
One cream, two sugars. Don’t bother him.
Don’t talk to him unless he talks to you. Got it?”
I did not. But I nodded.
“Good. Go up now. Seventh floor, directly above my office.” She turned to leave.
“Is it just for today?”
“I haven’t the faintest of ideas,” she said, walking into her office and shutting the door.
As the elevator crept slowly upward, I cursed the luck that my father had driven me, getting me to the office early.
But just as the door opened on seven, I also realized that she had been standing at my desk.
Maybe—maybe this was her way of putting me in the path of Mr. Pullman because it could lead to a writing opportunity.
A hint of a smile returned to my face. Miss Kelly wasn’t so bad as long as you did as you were told.
And it certainly felt like it wasn’t only my father rooting for my success now.