White Collar Girl (20 page)

“Okay.”

It wasn't okay. Not with me it wasn't. There were so many more important things on my mind just then, like figuring out how I was going to tell Jack that I would be covering the convention. Even though I'd been assigned only to the women's stories, I knew it was going to sting.

After Jack drank half his vodka, he said, “Listen, I'm in a shitty mood and I don't want to end up fighting with you about the wedding.” He jangled his keys in his pocket and turned toward the door. “I've had a lousy day. I'm tired and—”

“You're not leaving, are you?”

“I gotta go.”

“No. Don't. Stay.”

But he put his hand on the doorknob. “I'll—I'll call you later.”

•   •   •

I
hardly slept that night, and the next morning I woke before my alarm to the steady sound of raindrops pelting my bedroom window. It was one of those gunmetal-colored days. Everything was gray and gloomy, and I could see the clouds moving overhead with nothing behind them except for more bleakness.

By the time my attaché case and I headed down to the International Amphitheatre at Halsted and 42nd Street, the drizzle had changed over to an ominous downpour filled with thunder and lightning. It was as if the city were rebelling against this onslaught of delegates with their bad suits and their conventioneer antics.

The first morning Mrs. Angelo had me do a piece on the convention organist. He was a young man from Palos Park. Just twenty-two years old. When I interviewed him, he told me he had memorized more than two thousand political songs and military marches.

“Before this convention is over,” he said, “I bet you I'll have played
Chicago
from
Pal Joey
at least two hundred times.”

As soon as I finished that up, I moved on to the next assignment: the eighty switchboard operators in the convention
telephone center. Political warfare was going on inside the amphitheater, and here I was, down the hall, talking to a roomful of women in matching blue uniforms. They had undergone hours of special training for this with Illinois Bell, which included speech and elocution classes. The supervisor explained that their main responsibilities were to place calls, connect incoming calls and take messages for the delegates. How Mrs. Angelo expected me to make an interesting piece out of this was beyond me.

Next I was scheduled to interview the New York governor's secretary for White Collar Girl. The rewrite desk was standing by back at the city room. Higgs was working 'round the clock, awaiting updates so he could knock out the stories as they were called in. He had to have been as bored with my topics as I was.

I finished up early for the day and so I flashed my credentials and sat in on a press conference. Marty and Walter were sitting across the way, looking at me as if to say,
What the hell are you doing in here
?

“I'm not trying to step on anyone's toes,” I explained afterward. The three of us were standing in a crowded hallway. Reporters and photographers were chasing down the press secretaries, hoping for statements. “I just had some free time and was curious. . . .”

“Spare me.” Walter stuffed his pipe in his mouth, shook his head in disgust and walked away.

“Walter, c'mon—”

He ignored me and kept walking.

“Aw, don't worry about him,” said Marty. “He'll cool off.”

“Honestly, I don't want to cause problems. I just wanted to sit in and listen. That's all.”

“Then be smart. Watch how you go about it. That's my only advice.”

After Marty left, I went to a pay phone and called Jack,
asking if we could meet for a drink. Twenty minutes later I found him waiting for me in a dark corner of Marge's Pub, a dive up on Sedgwick. Marge, the owner, and her husband lived above the bar. They both waved to me when I came in.

“Sorry about last night,” Jack said, pulling me toward him for a kiss. “I was just so damn ticked off about the convention.”

“I know. And you have every right to be upset about that.”

“I knew if I stayed last night you were going to try to make me feel better, and I didn't want to feel better.”

I reached for his glass. “What is this?”

“Scotch.”

I took a sip because I needed a shot of courage. What I was about to tell him would definitely not make him feel better. But I had to say something before he saw my byline in the next morning's paper. And he would see it because Jack and I followed each other's work, read each other's pieces. He even read my recipes in Mary Meade's column. I took another sip of his scotch and called to the bartender for another.

“So I need to talk to you about something,” I said after I brought my drink back from the bar.

“What is it?”

“Well, I was going to tell you last night, but I just couldn't. It wasn't the right time.”

“What's going on? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's just that, well . . . My editors had a little meeting with me yesterday afternoon and . . . well”—I reached for his hand and shook my head—“God, I hate to tell you this. But see, they asked me to cover the convention. But”—I watched his jaw open as his eyes closed—“but I'm only covering the women's stories. Just small pieces. Nothing big. Nobody's probably even going to read them.” I heard the words leaving my mouth and it hurt. It was just like Simone de Beauvoir. It was a
betrayal of the self. I wasn't raised to downplay who I was and what I was capable of. If anything, it was just the opposite, especially being a girl and having a strong mother. But I didn't want to hurt Jack. “Please”—I looked at him—“say something.”

He slapped the table. “That's—that's great. I'm happy for you.” He grabbed his drink and gulped it.

“Please don't be like that. I know it's weird for you, but . . .”

He looked around the bar and then leaned his head back and scratched his neck. A thin sheen of perspiration had collected on his brow. “I don't want to talk about this right now.”

“I don't want you to be mad at me because my editors gave me—”

“I said I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay, fine. We won't talk about it.” I reached in my handbag for a cigarette and waited, expecting Jack to offer me a light. When he didn't, I leaned over the candle. “So tell me about your day.” I exhaled toward the ceiling.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

I exhaled again, harder this time. “Okay, fine. So you don't want to talk about the convention. You don't want to talk about your day. What
do
you want to talk about?”

“Nothing.”

“Jee-sus. C'mon, Jack.”

But he wasn't talking. So we sat in silence and finished our drinks. When we were leaving, we said good-bye to Marge and Mindy, one of the regulars who was at the bar, the two of them doing shots.

The rain had temporarily stopped, but the air was thick and smelled of earthworms. Jack and I started down the street, traversing the puddles. I assumed he'd be coming home with me like he normally did, but instead he stopped, stepped into the road and raised his hand to hail a cab.

“What are you doing? Aren't you coming with me?” I asked.

He waved his hand in the air. “Nah, I'm tired. I need a good night's sleep.”

He barely kissed me before he got in the taxi and drove off.

•   •   •

I
t was drizzling again the next morning when I made it to the amphitheater. I sat down in the entryway to wait for Mrs. Bernice McCray to arrive. Mrs. McCray was Governor Averell Harriman's executive secretary, and I was scheduled to interview her for White Collar Girl
.

While I waited on her, I ran into an acquaintance who was with the AP.

“Come with me,” he said. “I just got the results from last night.”

I followed him down the hall and ended up being among the first reporters to get the overnight polls. When you're one of a handful of people who know something that the rest of the world is waiting to hear, it's a powerful feeling. Everything inside me came alive as I rushed to the bank of phone booths. They were all taken—probably by other reporters calling in their scoops. I couldn't wait and let this chance pass me by, so I darted outside and found a phone booth around the corner and called back to the city room. The windowed panels of the booth were pelted with raindrops, like a Coca-Cola bottle pulled from an ice bucket. After a brief hold, I got Higgs on the phone. I swore the man never slept, always on the rewrite desk.

“I've got the overnight polls,” I said, standing in a phone booth, covering my ear to drown out the noise on the street.

There was a long static pause, and for a second I thought we'd lost the connection.

“Hello? Higgs? You there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm here.” There was another pause before he said, “Shouldn't I be getting this information from Marty or Walter?”

“They don't have it yet. And I do.” I knew Marty and Walter would be good and sore at me for making this call. But I had the information, and at the end of the day, editors didn't care who delivered the news as long as they got it. And got it first. It would have been irresponsible not to have called it in.

“Now, take this down,” I said, switching ears. “Stevenson just picked up three more votes, so right now he's got 690 delegates. . . . Yeah, he's basically got it wrapped up. . . . No official word yet on Kennedy's votes for vice president. We should have confirmation soon. But here's the real news. Harriman's not backing down. I know he's only got 228 votes . . . but they say they've talked to Truman and they're still in the fight. But everything indicates it's going to Stevenson on the first ballot and—”

“Jordan, that's Marty calling in on the other line. I have to go.”

“But wait—”

“Marty's holding for me. I—I gotta go.”

“I'll call you back as soon as I've got something else.” I barely got the sentence out before Higgs hung up.

I tried calling Jack after that, but there was no answer, so I went back into the amphitheater and waited for Mrs. Bernice McCray and the Roll Call of States. Meanwhile, I spoke with more delegates and the campaign and press secretaries.

Later that day I bumped into Marty and could tell right away he was upset with me.

“I thought I told you to watch how you went about this,” he said.

“Marty, I had the information. I had to call it in.”

He planted his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes. “I've been good to you, Walsh.”

“Of course you have, and I really appreciate—”

“I don't give a goddamn what you do to Walter, but don't think you can waltz in here and try to show me up.”

“I would never. Honest. That's not what I'm—”

“I'm a nice guy, Walsh, but if you ever go behind my back again, I'll mop the goddamn floor with you.”

“Marty—”

“We're done here.” He adjusted his hat, turned and walked away.

I called after him, but he kept walking, disappearing into the crowd. I was thrown off-balance after that. I felt stunned and misunderstood. I hadn't done it as a personal affront to Marty, just as a means to help myself.

I stopped into a café for a cup of coffee and a smoke, hoping to shake it off. It was crowded inside, and I got one of the last seats at the counter. I didn't make eye contact with anyone and stared into my steaming cup as if there were something there to see, like tea leaves, perhaps. I took a sip of coffee. It burned a hole in my gut.

When I returned to the convention hall, I saw Marty again. He had his thick glasses propped up on his forehead while he jotted down some notes. I sheepishly wandered over to him. “I'm really sorry about what happened earlier.”

“Aw, shrug it off, Walsh. Shrug it off.” He smiled and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You know me. I don't stay mad for long. But watch yourself. The others won't be as forgiving.”

And that was it. He seemed fine again. Normal. All was well and I was relieved. After that I was able to concentrate and finish the interview with the governor's secretary. It was getting late, but knowing I had Marty back on my side, I took a chance and went over to Stevenson's law office on LaSalle. I thought it was an ingenious move, and apparently I wasn't alone. There was a handful of reporters already standing around in the lobby, hoping to get information from his campaign manager or his press secretary. I figured that if I ran into Marty or Walter there, I'd offer to team up with them.

The hour grew later, and one by one the other reporters drifted home or to their hotel rooms. I toughed it out mostly because it was raining again, coming down hard in sideways sheets, and I'd left my umbrella back at the amphitheater. I didn't want to stand in the downpour trying to hail a cab along with every other stranded Chicagoan, so I sat on a hard wooden bench and waited it out. That was really the only reason I stayed behind, but it was a good thing I did.

Twenty minutes later one of Stevenson's aides came down and went over to the vending machine. I recognized him from earlier in the day, when he'd been standing on the stage next to the candidate. He was alone now. We were the only two people in the lobby. He was patting down his pockets, searching for change.

“Need a dime?” I rushed over and held out my hand with a few coins resting in my palm.

“Oh, thank you.” He slipped a dime into the slot and pulled out a Coca-Cola.

“Long day, huh?” I said.

He nodded. “You can say that again.”

“So what's going on up there?” I gestured toward the elevators, expecting him to give me the brush-off. But he was young and inexperienced. He didn't ask if I was a reporter.

He uncapped his Coke, took a long guzzle and began talking. “Stevenson's up there working on the nominating speech with the senator.”

“The senator?”

“Yeah. Senator Kennedy.” He took another gulp of his soda pop.

“So you're saying that Senator Kennedy's going to give the nominating speech?”

I probably should have masked the shock in my voice. That tipped him off, making him nearly choke on his drink. The aide realized then that he had said too much. But it was too late. If
what he'd just told me was true, it meant that Kennedy would not be the vice presidential candidate. The party never let a running mate deliver the nominating speech.

“I need to get back up there,” he said, chucking the bottle in the wastebasket as he punched the elevator button.