Pages of Promise (7 page)

This threat startled Amos, and he shook his head and held up his hand. “Now wait a minute! Don’t fly off the handle.” He looked at her fondly and said, “You’re just like I was when I was your age. I had to have my own way right when I wanted it. I mostly didn’t get it, though,” he said. “All right, Granddaughter. I’ll give you a try.” A thought passed through his mind, and a wicked light of amusement touched his eyes. “You won’t last long, though.”

“I will, too!”

“No, you won’t. I’m putting you with the toughest reporter I have. He’s got no use for women. Well, not exactly. He likes women a little
too
well—good-looking ones, that is. It’s just that he doesn’t like female reporters.”

Stephanie smiled brilliantly. “Thank you, Grandpa.” She came over and kissed him again, which pleased him inordinately.

“You always were an affectionate girl, but don’t be kissing around on Jake Taylor.”

“Who’s Jake Taylor?”

“He’s your new boss. Come along. I’ll introduce you to him.”

He got up out of his chair stiffly, for he had rheumatism in his knees, and led her through the outer office into a narrow hallway. There were four doors there, and he moved to the last one. Opening it without knocking, he stepped through and held the door for Stephanie, who came in and saw a man sitting behind a desk, a hat shoved far back on his head.

“Jake, this is my granddaughter, Stephanie Stuart. She’s come and pestered me for a job as a reporter, so I’m giving her to you. You have my permission to run her off if she can’t handle it. You two get acquainted. Afterward, Stephanie, you’re comin’ home with me for dinner. I assume you’ll be staying with your grandma and me at least for a while?” He stepped out and shut the door and chuckled.
Jake’s mighty
mean—but that granddaughter of mine, she has a mighty firm look
in her eye!

Stephanie waited for Taylor to speak. She could tell, even though he was seated, that he was very tall and was strongly built. He wore a gray sport coat with a maroon tie, but his collar was pulled open. He had reddish-brown hair and sharp brown eyes, and they took her in critically. There were scars around his eyes, and one of his ears was puffy.

When he didn’t speak, she said, “I see you’re a prizefighter.”

Taylor’s eyes opened fully then, with surprise. “You noticed that, did you? All these scars and my cauliflower ear? Well, I used to be.” He motioned with his head to a picture hanging among others. “That’s me when I was eighteen; I was going to be the next heavyweight champion of the world.”

Stephanie moved over to the wall and studied the picture. It was a younger Taylor wearing trunks and holding his fists up for a publicity picture. His curly hair was down in his eyes, and he was unmarked at the time. She turned back and said, “Why did you decide to give up fighting?”

“I got my brains beat out in my third professional fight,” he said, laughing. He had a dimple in his right cheek, and she thought he looked like a rough-hewn Clark Gable.

He was appraising her, as well. She said, “This must be awful for you, for your boss to shove a novice into your lap.” He grinned suddenly and she flushed. “I didn’t mean that literally.”

Taylor’s eyebrows went up, and he straightened in his chair and patted his thighs. “Any time you need a father confessor, my lap is available.”

“I had enough of that sort of talk in junior high school, Mr. Taylor,” she said. “Now, let’s get one thing straight. This is a business arrangement.”

“Right,” Taylor said, assuming a stern frown. “I don’t want you making any advances toward me, Miss Stuart! I know how you young women are, always after older men.” Taylor looked to be twenty-five, and there was a light of humor in his eyes as he leaned back and locked his fingers behind his head. “Sit down and tell me why you think you can be a reporter,” he demanded.

For the next twenty minutes, Stephanie talked. “I’ve always wanted to be like my granddad. He’s gone everywhere, he knows all sorts of people, he’s had an exciting life. That’s what I want,” she began. “I want to see the Casbah, to live in London or Paris, to travel to Korea and Japan, to learn about life, and to write about it.” Taylor prodded her with sharp, probing questions. He was a reporter, all right, and by the time the interview was over Stephanie felt drained. “Well, are you satisfied?” she said.

“Nope. This is all talk. We’ll find out if you can write.” He leaned forward, shuffled through a bunch of papers, and handed her some. “Write this up,” he directed.

Taking the wrinkled papers, Stephanie squinted her eyes. “Why, this writing is terrible!”

“It’s mine!” Taylor answered cheerfully. “I just jotted down the general facts. Now, you put it all together. You know, the where, the who, the how, the why, and so forth.”

“You mean—in here?”

“Oh, no. Come along. The office next door is empty. A fellow named Hatton had it until yesterday morning.”

“Well, won’t he care?”

“He doesn’t work here anymore. I fired him. Come along.” When he stood up she saw that he was at least six feet two and had the heavy shoulders of a boxer. She followed him as he ambled out and moved to the door next to his and opened it. “Here’s your kingdom,” he said. “All you need. A desk, a phone, and a typewriter. When you get through, bring it back to me. Let’s see what you can do.”

Stephanie was startled by the suddenness of it all. The door closed behind her, and she approached the desk, which was a scarred oak model that had seen much service. The chair that she sat in was on rollers, but one was missing so she had to keep it balanced. A battered Underwood typewriter was the only thing on the desk, and, feeling vastly intimidated, she began to examine the scribbling. For over two hours she worked, having difficulty interpreting some of Taylor’s notes, and she typed several drafts before she was satisfied. She pulled the last sheet of paper out of the typewriter and stood up. Her back ached, and she had the feeling that what she had done was worthless. Nevertheless, she marched out of her new office, knocked on Taylor’s door, and entered when he commanded. “Here it is, Mr. Taylor.”

“First names go better around here. You’re Stephanie and I’m Jake.”

“All right. That suits me fine.” Stephanie watched as he scanned the pages and she waited with dread for his verdict. She fully expected him to tear to shreds what she had written and was surprised when he looked up smiling.

“This is pretty good,” he nodded. “Sit down, and I’ll show you a few things that the paper demands from everybody. Basically you’ve done a good job. I didn’t think anyone could read my scribbling. I can’t read it myself half the time.”

A wave of relief swept through Stephanie, and she sat down, her knees weak. She listened as he pointed out some of the standard policies of the paper, and when he handed the article back, marked up carelessly, she took it and said, “I’ll make these changes right away—Jake.”

“We’ll be leaving right after lunch,” he said pleasantly. “We’re going to cover a ball game. You follow baseball?”

“Not very much.”

“You will. Game starts at one, but we can be a little bit late.”

She completed the changes and excitedly showed Amos what she’d been doing. He showed her around the building some and had sandwiches and Cokes brought in from a place across the street. They were still eating them in his office when Jake appeared and motioned to Stephanie from the far side of the newsroom that it was time to go.

She went outside with Jake and got into his battered Pontiac, which started reluctantly. They reached Wrigley Field and entered. She had only been to two or three ball games in her life, and none of them were major league. Both Bobby and Richard were avid baseball fans, and she had picked up a little from them, but all she could remember were some stars of the game, names like Jackie Robinson, Ted Williams, and Stan Musial. She did not know a single Cub player and wondered if she could deceive Taylor into thinking she knew more than she did.

He led her to the press box and snapped out the names of the reporters—all men—who grinned at her. One of them asked Stephanie, “How does a nice lady like you get to run around with a thug like Taylor?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Stephanie answered, and a laugh went up from the reporters.

“We’ll watch the game from up here,” Taylor said, finding a chair and pulling it up to the table. “Best seats in the house.”

Stephanie watched the game, speaking only when spoken to and desperately trying to pick up as much as she could. The Cubs lost by a score of eight to one, and the reporters all groaned as they got up to leave. “Come on, Steph,” said Jake, “I’ll take you down to meet some of the players.”

She followed him through the crowd fighting its way out at the exit, and they came to a sign that said Dressing Room. Jake opened the door and waited, but Stephanie stood staring at him.

“What’s the matter? Come on!”

“I–I can’t go into the locker room!”

Taylor cocked his head to one side. “How am I going to introduce you to the players if you won’t go into the locker room?”

“Well,” she said firmly, “you bring one of them out here.”

Taylor laughed abruptly. “I was hoping I could get you inside. It’d be quite a treat for the boys. All right. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get the losing pitcher out here, and you can write a story on how it feels to be a loser.”

“Thanks, Jake,” Stephanie said. She waited outside, and soon the pitcher came out looking dejected. His eyes narrowed when he saw her, and he said, “You ain’t the reporter that Taylor wants me to talk to?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The pitcher had a huge wad of tobacco in his mouth. He spat expertly to his left, then shrugged. “I ain’t never been interviewed by a female reporter.”

“Well, I’ve never interviewed a baseball player either, so it’ll be a first for both of us.”

The interview went well, for the pitcher seemed to be pleased at finding a sympathetic listener. He gave a long list of reasons why the Cubs had lost, and none of them were his fault. When it was over, he said, “I hope you do me right in the newspaper.”

“I will. Look for it,” Stephanie promised. She closed her notebook and found Jake, talking to one of the players.

He came over to her at once and said, “Did you get the stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, when we get back to the paper, type it up and have it on my desk in an hour. Then call it a day.”

Later when she handed him the article, he glanced over it quickly, then said, “See you tomorrow, Stephanie.”

“All right, Jake.” She stopped long enough to say, “Thanks for being so nice.”

“Oh, I’m nice. Everybody knows that.” He smiled then turned back to his work.

Stephanie collected her belongings and took a taxi to her grandparents’ home. Amos had called Rose, who greeted her at the door with hugs and kisses and seemed as excited about her getting the job at the paper as Stephanie was herself. “Oh, Grandma, I can do this job,” she said. “I know I can!” Later she chattered about the baseball game through supper with Amos and Rose, relating every detail she could about the reporters in the press box, the players, the field, the fans, the sounds, the smells.
Maybe,
thought Amos,
just maybe she
has the moxie for this business—at least til she falls in love and
decides to get married.
Stephanie went upstairs and finished unpacking, then went to bed looking forward to her first full day at work on a newspaper.

Boot camp was over. All assignments were made, and Richard and Smith were both assigned to the same company, attached to the First Marine Division in Korea.

“Well, we’re going to be together it looks like, Streak,” Smith said, lighting up a cigar as the two parted for a final leave. “Don’t get run over by a taxi or something. I need you to watch my back when we hit the beaches.”

“Same for you, Jack.”

The two separated, and Richard boarded a bus and made his way to Los Angeles. He was scheduled to leave on a ship for Korea from San Diego on September 20.

School had just started and Richard enjoyed the adulation of his former schoolmates. He went by the high school, and the girls with penny loafers and ponytails who swarmed about him seemed to be about ten years old. But he spent most of the time with his family. He went fishing with his father—both of them loved to fish—and it had been a good day for them. The sun sparkled on the green water. They anchored their boat over a coral reef, and the fish were biting. The boat rocked gently with the breeze. Jerry asked about Richard’s training.

“Was it as hard as you thought it would be?”

“A lot harder, Dad, but that’s the marine way. They figure to strip everything away and then build the marine on top of you.”

“You’re proud of being a marine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” The answer was quick and definite. Richard was wearing a T-shirt, and the firm muscles of his upper body bulged as tribute to the strictness of the training. His hair was cut in a crew cut, and he looked hard and tough, but there was no cruelty in his eyes.

When they turned toward shore, they’d caught enough red snappers to eat for six months. That afternoon after the fish had been cleaned, Richard and Stephanie, who had come home from Chicago to see him, went down to the swimming hole. They invited Bobby, but he had a piano lesson.

They splashed and laughed and finally came out and sat down, and as Stephanie dried her hair, she said, “You look like one of those muscle men on the covers of magazines in the drugstore—
Muscles and Health
or something like that.”

“All I need is an
S
on my chest.” Richard grinned. “How did you manage to get a job working for Gramps?”

“I’m so glad not to be going back to college. I despised every minute of it!” Stephanie pronounced venomously. “I made him give me a job. I just turned on the old charm.” She turned her shoulders bewitchingly and gave Richard a brilliant smile.

“Hey, don’t turn that thing loose on me! Why, it could make a man keel over at fifty paces!”

“It’s like Davy Crockett. He said he didn’t have to shoot raccoons, he just grinned ’em out of the trees.” She laughed and added, “He said one time he missed and knocked the top off an elm tree a hundred feet high!”