White Collar Girl (18 page)

“I thought you'd like to see this, dear.” She sat between my mother and me on the couch and took us through the album page by page. “. . . And this is the church you'll be married in. Isn't that a beautiful altar?”

“Church?” My mother's voice took on a strange quality. “I know Jordan said she'd be willing to convert, but—” She couldn't finish her sentence because a gasp filled the air as everyone looked at Grandma Casey, their mouths hanging open.

“Well, of course they'll have a church wedding,” said Mrs. Casey, sharpening her smile.

“Convert? Who's converting?” asked Grandma Casey.

“Don't worry about it, Mother,” said Mrs. Casey.

“Hank and I were married down at City Hall,” said my mother, clearly trying to stir the pot.

“What does she mean Jordan's converting?” asked Grandma Casey again. “What's she converting from?”

“Been twenty-eight years.” My father piped in from across the room. “Seemed to do just fine for us.”

Grandma Casey raised her voice louder than I would have thought possible. “Would somebody tell me what the hell's going on here?”

“It's nothing,” said Judge Casey. “Everything's fine.”

“I'll tell you right now,” said Grandma Casey, “my oldest grandson is not getting married down at City Hall. Over my dead body he will.”

I sank down on the couch and felt the tension rush to my temples. This evening was not going the way I'd hoped and there was nothing I could do to turn it around. My dream of one big happy family was slipping away. The judge and several relatives were at Grandma Casey's side, reassuring her that it would be a church wedding. Meanwhile, Mrs. Casey announced that the house at the end of the street was for sale and it would be just perfect for Jack and me.

By the time we left the Caseys' house, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. As much as I longed to be a part of their family, I now saw that there was a price to pay. It was assumed that I would quit my job at the paper, raise a family and make a home in Bridgeport for Jack, who would go on to live the life I'd been planning for myself.

•   •   •

A
fter the New Year, in January of 1956, Marty Sinclair returned to the city room. He was a bit thinner than before but otherwise none the worse for wear. One thing I did notice was that he now kept a copy of the Bible on his desk. I'd see him crack it open, read a passage or two and close his eyes as he'd press the book to his chest. I wondered if he was praying for protection from Big Tony. He'd been sentenced to life in prison, but even behind bars, a guy like that still had men on the outside ready to carry out his orders.

There was lots of whispering about Marty going around the city room. I'd walk by a cluster of people and overhear them saying things like, “He seems normal to me. . . . He's not doing anything strange that I can tell. . . .”

For the first two weeks or so, Marty turned the guys down each time they invited him out for lunch or to grab a drink after work. But gradually he began coming out with us, staying for one and tossing his dollar on the bar even before he'd finished his beer. After a couple more weeks, though, the beer progressed to whiskey, and by the time he returned to the bowling league, good ol' Marty was back in the swing of things.

One night we were back at the King Pin, going up against the City News Bureau. Jack and the
Sun-Times
were a few lanes over, taking on the
Chicago American
. I was sitting with Mr. Ellsworth, who'd surprised us by showing up even though he couldn't bowl on account of having a bad back. Mrs. Angelo, Benny, Gabby and a few others were there as spectators. Afterward we went into the lounge and the losers bought the winners drinks and then the winners bought the losers a round. Everyone was crowded in around the bar. Mr. Ellsworth was holding court, talking about his days at the City News Bureau, when I noticed M sitting alone in a banquette off to the side. She kept looking over at us, and I excused myself and went to her.

“What are you doing back here all by yourself?” I pulled up a chair and sat down.

She looked at me in a boozy haze, her eyeliner smudged beneath one eye. “Do you even know how lucky you are? My God, you've got everything.” She pointed to my engagement ring.

“Just because I'm getting married doesn't mean I have
everything
. I'm not crossing the finish line, you know.”

“Trust me, that's close enough.”

But was it?

I remember my parents questioning me after they met the Caseys at Christmas. We'd barely made it to the car before they started in.

“Is this what you want?” my mother asked. “Don't get me wrong. We love Jack. He's terrific. And the father's not so bad, but that mother. Sheesh.”

“And what about that saying grace business? Are we going to have to do that every time we sit down to a meal with those people?”

“
Those people?
” I looked at him. “Those people are going to be my in-laws.”

“She's right, Hank,” said my mother. “We need to try to make an effort.”

“I'll make an effort. I made an effort tonight, didn't I?”

“Yes, dear. You were on very good behavior.”

“I'll say one thing—they sure as hell have a big family.” My father leaned closer to the steering wheel, no doubt calculating the costs of inviting them all to the wedding.

I was thinking about all this as I watched M finish her drink. She stood up and worked her way into her coat.

“Well, if you ask me, Jordan, you've got it made.” She left without saying good-bye to anyone.

•   •   •

O
ne snowy morning I arrived at the city room and went over to the horseshoe like I always did, said good morning to the slot man and checked the assignment book. Even though I was still working on the women's pages, every now and then, when the other reporters were too busy, Mr. Ellsworth gave me a shot at some bigger stories. He had me covering accidents and fires, that sort of thing. He said I was good with human tragedies.

I ran my finger down the first column, looking for my name, not knowing if I'd be reporting on a ribbon cutting that day or a six-car pileup. I took on whatever they threw my way, believing that each story got me closer to the city desk.

That day I was assigned another car crash, this one involving an elderly man who'd driven his car into the side of a building. The driver was pronounced dead on the scene. I went to my desk to read through the autopsy report, which said that the driver had suffered from a heart attack moments before the impact. I was always amazed by the information we got back from the coroner's office and the forensics lab and the things they could gather from a victim's shirt or a seemingly random piece of scrap metal. Trace evidence came in the form of everything from gunshot residue to
blood-splatter analysis. It made me wonder about Eliot's personal effects, which we'd been given the night he was killed. I imagined everything would have been blood-soaked, torn and covered in dirt and gravel from the pavement. Could those items have filled in some of the gaps of information missing from Eliot's accident?

“Whatcha working on there, Walsh?”

I looked up, startled, thrown out of my thoughts.

Marty Sinclair was standing over my shoulder, reading as I typed. “Oh, it's nothing,” I said, splaying my fingers over the page so he couldn't see.

“C'mon, show me.”

“It's an accident. Car hit a building. Poor driver died. I guess Benny didn't have time to do it.”

“Well, let's have a look.” Marty pulled up a chair. “I read your piece about the art gallery fire. It was good, but it could have been stronger.” He reached over and adjusted the carriage return so he could see the whole page.

I chewed the inside of my cheek while he read.

“See now, right here”—he pointed to the second paragraph—“you want to keep hitting the reader with the facts. Front-load it. You're going soft on them too early. . . .”

I glanced back at him. So obvious. Of course. He was right. That's what made him Marty Sinclair.

“Let me have another look before you turn it in,” he said as he stood up.

“Really?”

“Really.” He offered a subtle wink.

I felt anointed and very aware of Henry and Walter and some of the others overhearing this exchange.

A few days later, Marty stopped by my desk again and gave me some pointers on a story about a funeral parlor with unscrupulous burial practices. Apparently the doorway in the back of
the funeral home was too narrow for the caskets to pass through, so they always turned them on their sides before loading them into the hearse. The thought of people's deceased loved ones being tossed about like fruit salad made me sick, but as Marty said, “It makes for good copy.” The following week he helped me on another piece about a suicide jumper in the Loop.

“What's up with you and Marty?” Randy asked one night over cocktails. “We're starting to think he has a thing for you.”

Jack had thought that as well, but there was nothing of the sort going on. But one day, after Marty had been working with me, I did finally ask him myself.

“Why
are
you doing this? Why are you helping me?”

“Because you're hungry and you're good. But”—he raised a finger—“you could be great. That's why.” He pointed out a few more things about my piece and said, “So when are you getting married, Walsh?”

I was surprised that Marty of all people would ask me that. But then again, that was the question everyone had been asking lately. Usually I'd tell them “soon” or perhaps more accurately, “next year.”

I thought about the night Jack asked me to marry him. Despite his discovering that I wasn't Catholic or Irish, that conversation had gotten us ahead of ourselves. Jack had said things that night that he hadn't really thought through, and it forced our hand, accelerating everything. I loved him. I did. And I wanted to marry him. Someday. But the truth was that I wasn't ready yet and neither was he.

We had set something in motion and there was no calling it back. This all came to me like a streak of lightning, illuminating everything for an instant before disappearing, leaving me in darkness once more. Only a vague uncertainty remained.

What I told Marty and others was that planning a wedding took time and converting to Catholicism took even more time—
time that I couldn't spare. Especially now that I was getting some real assignments and I had Marty's support. I was making strides at work and I didn't want to lose my momentum.

“So tell me the truth?” Marty said. It was just the two of us, huddled over our scotches, waiting for the others to join us at Riccardo's. “You getting your fill of car crashes and gas explosions?”

I laughed. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm starting to see that it really doesn't matter if it's a debutante ball or a five-alarm fire.”

He smiled. “The news is the news, isn't it?”

“It's so true. You get down the facts and your who, what, where, when and why and then you write it up.”

“Pretty much,” he said, giving the scotch a swirl in his glass. “But don't be discouraged. There are still bigger stories out there. One day you come across a story that's never been told, or something sticks in your craw and you want to bring it out to the public, or you want to right a wrong. When you come across a story like that, then”—he raised his glass—“then it's a whole new ball game. That's the kind of reporting that wins you awards and recognition and gives you the freedom to write whatever you want.”

“But how do I get those kinds of assignments in the first place?”

“You do exactly what you're doing. Don't wait for the assignments to come to you—you go out and find the stories yourself. Keep your eyes and ears open. And keep writing. Keep digging. You'll get there.”

“You'll get where?” I heard someone say. I turned around and there was Walter with the others.

Marty and I didn't talk any more about my reporting that night, but his words stayed with me. And so, in addition to the fires and crashes, I used my spare time to cultivate my own stories.

Right away I started working on an article about female
inmates in the Dwight Correctional Facility. What I'd learned so far was that behind every convicted woman there was a man to blame. One woman told me that her boyfriend brought her along on robberies because he was too fat to fit through the windows and had her crawl inside and unlock the door. Another woman told me she forged checks for her husband because he was illiterate and couldn't do it himself. I spent nearly two weeks meeting with the inmates and writing down their stories.

People, especially M and the other ladies at work, thought I was crazy taking on extra assignments in my free time.

“I don't understand why you don't just hurry up and get married,” said M.

“I'm too busy right now.”

“Doing what?” M shook her head. “I don't understand you at all sometimes. And I really don't understand what we're doing here.”

We were at the Berghoff on Adams near State Street. They operated a men's-only bar, and I was working on a feature to see if they'd wait on me. It was the middle of the afternoon and the bar was fairly empty. Still, the few men sitting there scowled when they saw us, and one of them complained to the bartender who was now making his way toward us.

“They're going to throw us out, you know,” said M.

“You're probably right.” I sat on a barstool and patted the one next to me for M. “But if they do, that'll make for a better story, won't it?”

“Ladies,” the bartender said, wiping out a glass, “we only serve men here.”

“We just want to order a drink,” I said.

“I'm afraid you'll have to do it somewhere else.” He slung the towel over his shoulder and folded his arms across his chest.

“I'm Jordan Walsh with the
Chicago Tribune
. I'm doing a story about why you won't serve women in this bar.”

“I don't care who you are and where you're from. The rules are the rules, ladies, and this is a men's-only bar.”

I pulled out my notebook and pen. “Would you care to make a comment?”

“I said, we don't serve women in here. That's my comment. Now, I've asked you nicely, but if you and Blondie don't leave quietly, I'm going to have to make you leave. You understand?”

Less than a minute later, M and I were outside on the sidewalk. It was the middle of March, and Daley had the lampposts all over downtown done up in shamrocks and green tinsel in preparation for his St. Patrick's Day parade.

“Let's see if there's a side door,” I said.

“Why? They're not going to serve you. What are you trying to do, get us arrested?”

“I'm trying to get a story.”

“Oh, Jordan, why don't you just stop this?”

“Stop what?”

“Chasing down stories. Looking for your big break.” She reached inside her pocketbook for her compact. “You should be focused on converting and planning your wedding now. That's what you should be doing. What are you waiting for? I swear sometimes you act like you don't even want to get married.”

“That's not true. I do want to get married. I just—I'm—”

“Poor Jack,” said M as we drifted away from the Berghoff. “You're making him wait all this time. I hope he's as patient as you think he is, because I'm warning you, one of these days you're going to have to stop putting your job first.”

•   •   •

P
utting my job first was something I learned when I was sixteen, before I even had a job. My parents were having one of their dinner parties. Nelson Algren was there that night with Simone de Beauvoir. He'd just published
The Man with the Golden
Arm
, and the English version of de Beauvoir's book
The Second Sex
was coming out. Mr. Algren had given a lecture at the University of Chicago earlier that evening. There was another couple there that night, along with the poet Gwendolyn Brooks.