78. George
George
Sarah was right. I braced my hands against my office desk.
I would help from Chicago. It had been less than an hour since I left her sitting on the couch in the hall outside Viola’s room.
I was raw around the edges for Jacob, Viola, myself, but I tried to focus.
I rubbed both hands over my face, caught a whiff of almonds—Sarah. Her scent steadied me.
Lenny popped his head into my office. “Have ’em all assembled, like you said, boss.”
“Great, Lenny. That’s great.” I swung my door wide and found the newsroom packed with over fifty men.
Chairs scraped and typewriters stilled as I stepped from my office.
The air hung thick with ink, sweat, and the urgent energy of a story about to break.
Men from every department stood in clusters around the desks and tables that filled the large room.
I knew every single one of them on sight.
And they knew me. Knew I would do this for them if the need arose. We were family.
I raised my hand, and a hush fell over the newsroom. Fifty men waited for me to speak, but the memory of Viola’s face tightened my throat. I swallowed. I can do this. I can do something to help Jacob and Viola.
My voice carried through the room. “You’ve all heard about the train crash and Jacob Jensen. This is the real deal, boys. One of our own is missing. I want you to use every connection to Kansas you can think of.”
My eyes swept the crowd. Ron nodded, mouth tight. There would be no drinks at Vinnie’s tonight. The whole room felt the shift.
“Anyone, no matter how flimsy the connection. Send them telegrams. Offer the reward. Get me some word.”
Murmurs rose among the group.
I raised my hand again. “First person to bring me word gets thirty dollars. If you bring me good news, I will come to your house and personally mop your floors. Now get to it.”
The room erupted with noise and motion.
I turned to Lenny, who was pinning the map to the wall. “We need to work at this in shifts. It might take days. I’ll take tonight. Sign out to me with any updates before you go.”
“Sure thing. We’ll find him, boss.” Lenny clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Always sounds worse than it really was.”
I stared at the map and gripped the lucky pennies in my pocket. The site of the crash was marked in red. “Hope you’re right, Len.”
At my desk, I unrolled a copy of the most up-to-date map of the region.
I didn’t know a soul in Kansas. But I could read a map.
Who could I reach out to for news? I clicked my pennies from one hand to the other.
I set to work, making a list of all the towns near the crash site.
I’d send telegrams addressed to the editor of the local paper.
I should reach out to the Kansas City paper.
They were probably the first big paper on-site.
I wondered if Father knew the editor or owner.
Father. The news had visibly shaken him. Not as much as it had shaken me, but he was usually unshakable. I looked toward the top of the building. I’d go ask about the Kansas paper. See if he needed me to do anything.
I climbed the stairs. Mrs. Kirkegard waved me over. “Let him know you have things under control.”
Did I have things under control? The concern on her face twisted my stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“Send him home.” She laid a hand gently on my arm. “He’s remembering when he lost your mother.”
Her words hit harder than expected. He didn’t have a partner to hold him—steady him. Only a portrait and a memory. “Not sure I can send him anywhere.”
She held my gaze over the rim of her glasses until I relented.
“I’ll do my best.”
In early December, night fell over the city no later than five o’clock, and it was now half past six. Father’s door stood half open, the office swallowed in darkness. Too still. Too silent. I paused at the threshold and glanced back at Mrs. Kirkegard. She waved me on.
I took a deep breath and strode in without knocking. “Father, I need the names of any newspaper men you know in Kansas City.”
He stared out the window, in the same position he’d been in hours earlier, when I’d left to share the news with Viola. He said nothing.
“I’m going to stay here tonight—coordinate telegrams and incoming information. You should go home to check on Viola. She is—well, she is distraught. Greta and Sarah are with her.”
Sarah… steady and strong.
Father gave a heavy sigh, pushed himself up from his chair, and trudged past me.
I followed. He stopped at Mrs. Kirkegard’s desk to scribble a few names on a sheet of paper, folded it once and handed it to me.
Troubled, steel-blue eyes met mine. Held mine.
A flicker of understanding passed between us.
He nodded.
And I nodded back.
Then he turned and strode to the stairs.
Mrs. Kirkegard rose from her desk and gathered her things.
“I’ll walk you down.”
“Never you mind that.” She patted my cheek. “You’ve got the helm.”
Below me, the newsroom hummed with the deep rumble of a powerful machine waking up. And, like it or not, I was at the controls. So I went back down and got to work.