Chapter Four
Four
The Clackers are already in the office. Elsie attempts to arrive before them most days to prove how dedicated she is to her position, but it is as if they sleep in the walls, an army of robots assembling as soon as the lights spring on.
Even if Elsie somehow got in before the sun came up—arriving, her eyes red ringed and sore, as the tobacconists set out their stalls—the women would be at their desks, straight backed in pastel pussy bows, clack, clack, clacking away at their typewriters.
When Elsie was made assistant to the newspaper’s editor, Paul Hunter, she thought that she’d made it, that she was a step closer to her dream of one day writing for the Los Angeles Signal.
She knew she was smart enough, hardworking enough, that she had more qualifications than most of the men in the office.
She had notebooks crammed full of story ideas, sample columns, corrections she would make to previous days’ articles.
Perhaps she could have a little section to oversee.
Books? Theater? Instead, she finds herself infuriatingly stuck, fetching coffee, typing letters, sourcing Dodgers tickets for Paul’s most valuable contacts.
She takes a seat at her desk. It’s neat, with just a few books lined up—Joan Didion, Katherine Anne Porter, Truman Capote—her typewriter always clean.
A newspaper lies open to the crossword, almost complete.
As her colleagues flow in, her mind scratches away at the final clue.
Capital of Albania. She’s sure she knows it.
She greets the morning’s arrivals with a smile, a “Good morning, Charles,” a gracious acceptance of the work they sling on her pile.
“Tell Hunter I’m still waiting for his notes on the Bobby Seale story. Did they get lost somewhere?”
“I need to switch my meeting with Paul from eleven forty-five to three fifteen. You think you can remember that, sweetie? It’s important. I’ve got Gregson on my case.”
Yes, Sweetie could remember it. Sweetie would run rings around the rest of them if she were given the chance—although she could never show that she felt herself worthy of more than just an assistant’s job.
She could never mark herself out like that.
Promising young women didn’t get on well at the Signal.
Forget sloppiness with a typewriter; the worst thing you could be labeled as at this office was a firecracker.
Ah. Elsie reaches for a pen, scrawls the letters T-I-R-A-N-A.
Paul Hunter arrives just after nine, and Elsie is intrigued to see that there is a woman with him.
She is tall. Her hair, unlike that of the other women in the office, is not pin curled or frozen with Aqua Net.
It is wild, frizzy, loose around her shoulders.
She is not dressed like the Clackers or the assistants, either.
She is not even wearing a skirt or heels or makeup.
She has a pantsuit on. The men will lose their minds at a pantsuit.
“All right, listen up, everybody.” Hunter claps his hands until the hubbub dies down. Above, an industrial light bulb flickers as a bluebottle fries.
“This is Patricia Fowler, our new reporter.” He seems to gesture specifically to the pantsuit. “We’re lucky to have her on board. She’ll be an asset to the team.”
Patricia looks as if she is about to speak, but Paul places a firm hand on her wrist.
“She has a ton of experience, most recently at the Times.”
The Clackers raise their eyebrows. Patricia, Elsie notices, is glaring at Paul’s hand on hers.
“She’ll be working with Mattson and Hope on news, assisting Heston on crime and running the domestic column, of course.”
Elsie resists the urge to scoff. How come this woman has been brought in as a reporter and she’s still running around after Paul Hunter?
Elsie is smart enough to do a reporter’s job; she knows she is.
Sure, she doesn’t have this Patricia’s experience at the Times, but what else can she have that Elsie doesn’t?
“Straight to it, then,” Hunter barks. “Department heads: in my office.”
Elsie longs to be called into the morning meeting—to be offered a seat at the table, to be in the thick of it, floating her own story ideas.
How about something on women’s roles in the anti-war movement across the state?
What about a profile on Bobbi Gibb, the woman who snuck in and ran the Boston marathon alongside all those men?
Instead, she watches as several identical figures file into Paul’s office, their trousers the color of burned toast, their pallid bald spots deprived of sunlight.
Then suddenly, to Elsie’s astonishment, Hunter stands and beckons her in through the doorway.
She inhales sharply, scrapes back her chair so fast that it screeches.
Perhaps this is it. Perhaps the hiring of Patricia has opened his eyes.
Perhaps he finally has a story that needs her considered female perspective.
Even if it’s predictable—maternity statistics, women’s health, some Hollywood wedding—she’ll do it.
By the time she reaches the door, he has sat down again, and the group is discussing the headlines. Selman, the deputy news chief, is listing the day’s top stories: missing women, civil rights marches, John Lennon hates Jesus.
She clears her throat.
“Yes, Elsie?” Hunter says briskly, shuffling a thick stack of papers. She could read them, sure, offer her opinion, correct his grammar. She feels her fingers start to twitch but resists reaching out for the documents.
He glances up. “I’m meeting Halliday later. My cabinet’s looking dry. I need scotch. Fetch, please.” He waves her off.
Her shoulders sink.
“Elsie?” Hunter seems annoyed that she is still standing in the doorway.
“Right away, Mr. Hunter.” She pulls the door closed behind her, shutting out the rising laughter from inside.
—
Later, when the afternoon lull is seeping in, Elsie returns with the liquor.
She knocks for Hunter and, finding his office empty, crosses to his desk and places the brown paper package in the middle of it.
As she turns to leave, the telephone rings.
She pauses. The call must have come directly to him rather than to the general number, which Elsie usually answers before patching the caller through.
Still, she should answer the call. It could be important, and she doesn’t want to be yelled at for missing a message.
“Paul Hunter’s office.”
The man at the other end of the line is abrupt, says he’s from the county sheriff’s department.
“It’s about the Jane Doe from the gala,” he says. “Blondie. Get him to call me. I’m around until six.”
Elsie scratches down the details, tucks the message underneath the bottle of scotch and tries to ignore the prickle in her fingers.
This must be the same body that Bev told them about last night.
She pictures the story moving through the newsroom—silt along the channels of a river.
Hunter will return from his meeting and find the message; he will call the sheriff’s department, then open his door wide to call in the reporters for an urgent meeting.
Patricia Fowler might even be admitted. Elsie will be forced to sit outside while everything happens behind that closed door.
She’ll get lost outside it all.
A Jane Doe. She knows what the term means: an unidentified female body. Elsie pauses at the threshold of Hunter’s office, her fingers flexing almost imperceptibly at her side. She could change all this; for once, she could be the one in the office who is first on the story.
She turns, strides back to the desk, picks up the note and places it firmly in her pocket.