White Collar Girl (21 page)

As soon he disappeared, I rushed to the nearest telephone booth and called back into the city desk.

“Jordan,” said Higgs, “I've just hung up with Walter. I'm going to finish this up and—”

“But Walter's not at Stevenson's office and I am. And I've got word that he's working on his nominating speech at this very minute and get this—this is . . .”

I heard some muffled voices and scuffling on the other end of the line before someone else came on the phone. “Walsh—” It was Mr. Copeland. “What the hell are you doing now? Stick to the goddamn stories you've been assigned to and stop messing with—”

“Kennedy's not going to be the vice presidential nominee.”

That stopped him from shouting at me. “What? How do you know?”

“I spoke with one of Stevenson's aides and the party's asked Kennedy to nominate him. And you know that if Kennedy delivers the nominating speech, he's not going to be on the ticket.”

I heard Mr. Copeland exhale into the receiver. He sounded exasperated when he said, “Get a confirmation on that and then call us back. And, Walsh?”

“Yes?”

“Nice work.”

He hung up on me, but I didn't care.

•   •   •

T
he next day the editors brought Gabby in to cover the rest of the women's stories for me and I began working the convention, sharing a byline with Marty and Walter. Marty seemed
okay with this change. Walter, of course, was not. But too damn bad. It was a personal victory, and I wasn't going to apologize for that.

I wanted to tell Jack what had happened but feared he'd be even more upset than he'd been about me covering the women's stories. Besides, we'd hardly spoken the past few days, and when we did talk, the conversations weren't good. We were too polite and stiff or else we were snapping at each other. I carried a dull ache around with me each time we hung up.

And then the next day I received a telephone call from Judge Casey.

“Does a busy gal like you have time for a quick lunch? I can come meet you down by the amphitheater. There's a place over on Halsted, not far from the convention. I need to talk to you about something privately. Just the two of us.”

The restaurant was the Sirloin Room inside the Stock Yard Inn. It was a fancy place with white tablecloths and brass-accented leather banquettes. They were known for their meat and had this gimmick where you'd pick a raw steak and watch while your waiter seared your initials right into the meat.

I had no idea what Judge Casey wanted to see me about, and I was nervous until I saw him coming through the revolving door with that ever-present smile on his face. He greeted me with a big hug and playfully rapped his knuckles against my attaché case.

“How's my girl doing?” he asked. “I haven't seen much of you lately.”

“I know. I'm sorry I missed Mass on Sunday and—”

“Oh, don't apologize. I know you're busy. I just wanted to see how you're doing.”

“Oh, me? I'm fine.”

He gave me a doubting look, as if he could see right through
me. “Listen, I know Jack isn't always the easiest person to get along with.”

“It's just that he sees this as some sort of competition between us. I don't want him to resent me because of my job.”

“No, no, it's not that. But you have to understand, he's not used to you career types. His mother never worked a day in her life. This is all new to him. And Jack's a proud young man. He wants to be the big shot, the breadwinner. Someone you can look up to and respect.”

“But I do. I do respect him.” I rested my head in my hands. “I just—I don't know how to make this work with him.”

“Can I give you a little fatherly advice?”

“Yes. Please.” I was starved for some fatherly advice and my own father had checked out of that department.

“You're a strong woman. I knew that the first time Jack brought you home. And I know strong women because I was raised by one. Grandma Casey is tough as nails. Why do you think everyone in the family's scared to death of her?” He laughed, and as his smile receded, he leaned in closer and cleared his throat. “Jordan, I don't mean to pry, and I hope you know that I only want the best for you, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I know you and Jack love each other, but I see you struggling with all this and I have to ask—are you prepared for what is expected of you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're going to convert to a whole new religion and a whole new way of life. You're entering into a mixed marriage, and it won't be easy. I just want to make sure your eyes are wide open. I want you to make sure this is right for you. Is this really what you want? To become a Catholic? To become a housewife? A mother? And understand that I won't judge you either way.”

I couldn't speak just then. These choices had caged me in. I ran my hand along my collar and opened the top button. I needed air.

“You know I want you to be happy. I want Jack to be happy, too. I don't want to see anyone get hurt. But if this isn't right, then you both have to recognize it. Doesn't mean you don't love each other, but converting just to pacify Jack and the rest of us won't be good for the marriage or for the children.”

I heard myself sigh as a knot of tension that I didn't even know I'd been harboring began unraveling inside my chest. Someone understood. Someone was giving me an out.

“Do you get what I'm saying?” he asked.

All I could do was nod.

•   •   •

I
had been working eighteen hours a day covering the convention, and when it was finally over, the Democrats had nominated Adlai Stevenson and Estes Kefauver to go up against Eisenhower and Nixon.

I was tired to the bone and could have easily gone home, taken a bath and crawled into bed, but I wanted to follow up on my story about the close of the convention. I went back to the city room and stood with Higgs at the rewrite desk, reading over his shoulder, adding in last-minute facts and scouring my notes for the best quotes. After we finished, we ran it by the night editor, dropped the copy into the capsule and sent it through the pneumatic tube to the composing room on the third floor. I followed the story down, not wanting to leave anything to chance.

The composing room always fascinated me. I remember the first time I was down there. It was an enormous place, noisy, hot—even in the wintertime—and filled with a pungent scent of ink and newsprint. This was where dozens upon dozens of men—bank boys, Linotype operators and proofreaders—dressed in heavy
leather aprons brought the paper to life each day. With ink-stained fingers they set our stories letter by letter and had the uncanny ability to read type upside down and backward, to proof a story reading it right to left. I had no idea how they did this, and it fascinated me.

When I came back up from the composing room, I ran into Mrs. Angelo.

“What are you still doing here?” I asked.

“Rewriting all of Gabby's stories from the convention. She's no good being out in the field. Makes her a nervous Nellie. I told them so, but did they listen to me? No.” She sat down at her desk and started typing like a madwoman.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah, come back to society news.”

“Mrs. Angelo, I—I . . .”

“Oh, never mind. I'm just giving you a hard time. It'll be faster if I do it myself.” She pressed her lips together tightly and shook her head as she typed.

I went back over to my desk and telephoned Jack. I held my breath, listening to the phone ringing. I could picture the sound echoing off the bare walls in his apartment, his black rotary phone no doubt on the floor by his bed, the cord tangled in a pile of discarded socks and blankets. I was about to hang up when at last he answered.

“Will you meet me at my place?” I asked. When he didn't say anything, my voice cracked. “Please? I need to see you.”

By the time I got to my apartment, Jack was waiting for me outside. I kissed him hello and felt his hand lightly stroke my back. I tried to look him in the eye, but he wouldn't have it yet. We stood in the hallway of my apartment building. The stroller was still there, a broken lamp lying on the quilted blanket. With my attaché case in hand, I fumbled through my handbag for my
keys while Jack and I made small talk about the rain and the humidity. It was a ridiculous conversation, and painful.

When I got the key in the door, I turned to him and said, “How long are we supposed to pretend that you're not upset with me for covering the convention?”

“That's not what I'm upset about.”

“If that's not it, then I'd love to know what's bothering you.”

“You want to know what's bothering me? All right, I'll tell you. You said you were covering the women's stories—not Kennedy's nominating speech. Why didn't you tell me the truth? Why would you have lied about it?”

“Lied? I didn't lie about it.” I turned the key and heard the lock trip. “I didn't even know I was going to cover that. I was covering all that other crap. I was bored to tears. Believe me, Mr. Ellsworth did not assign the nominating speech to me. I went out and got that story. I saw an opportunity and I took it. You would have done the same thing if you'd been me.”

I watched him run his tongue along his crooked front teeth, making a sucking sound. “You need to get your priorities straight,” he told me.

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

“Do you want to marry me or what? The bishop already gave us permission to be married in the church—even though you haven't done anything about converting.”

“Oh, God”—I dropped my briefcase to the floor—“now you're starting to sound like your mother.”

“Well, either you're ready to convert and get married or you're not. It's just that simple.”

“So this is all on me now—is that it?” I was appalled, and my mind shot back to my lunch with Judge Casey. I had to ask once again if this was the right decision for me. “What's really bothering you?”

“I can't get five minutes alone with you to discuss anything.”

We both knew that wasn't true, and I was getting tired of apologizing for my drive, for my wanting a career.

“What are you trying to prove anyway?” he said. “You're running around town with that ridiculous briefcase—trying to act like you're a man.” He gave my attaché case a shove with his foot.

“That's funny, because we both know that if I
were
a man—if the situation were reversed—this conversation wouldn't be happening. We'd be celebrating my success, and instead you're punishing me for it. This was a big story I was working on and you know it. Just admit it: this isn't about us getting married. This is about me covering the convention and you being pulled off of it.”

“That's bullshit.”

“Is it really?”

We were standing in the living room. I hadn't bothered to turn on the light, and the streetlamp's slow coming in through the window was casting a shadow over his face. We weren't saying anything. We had reached a standoff. I heard the kitchen faucet dripping and I went over to tighten the knob. He came up behind me at the sink and wrapped his arms about my waist, letting his chin drop to my shoulder.

“Just tell me one thing,” he said, his breath rushing in and out against my neck. “Do you
need
me? Do you even want me around?”

“Oh, God, Jack.” I groaned and pulled away from him. “Why do you always have to say things like that?”

“Because I never know how you feel about me. About us. You never tell me. You never show any real emotion.”

“That's not true.”

“Your family has really made a mess of you. You think
they're
cold and unfeeling. Take a look in the mirror sometime. You're like an iceberg.”

He glared at me, and in that moment I felt my stomach
knotting up even as I discounted what he'd said. I was strong. I had to be strong. I couldn't go to pieces and start blubbering every time I hit a bump in the road. Didn't he understand that?

I stared into his eyes, my body shaking. “How dare you stand there and criticize my family? You and your perfect little family have never had a problem in all your lives. When we lost Eliot, we lost everything. You have no idea what we've been through. You don't understand a damn thing about it.”

“You're right,” he said. “I don't. I don't understand your family, and I sure as hell don't understand you.”

Jack had just confirmed everything I'd been questioning for weeks and months. All my doubts had been resolved. The ground beneath us was shifting. I felt it, and he had to have too. There was no going back.

“I love you,” I said with the words crowding my throat. “But we're not good for each other. You know it and I know it.” Excruciating silence followed. “We could blame it on religion. That's the easy out. But I think we both know there's more to it than that. I can't have a husband who's not on my side.”

“I am on your side.”

“Not when it comes to my work, you're not. I've been nothing but supportive of you and you can't do the same for me. You know what the problem is, Jack? You love me because I'm smart. And you resent me because I'm smart.”

He leaned forward and held me closer. He didn't deny it.

“You can't have it both ways,” I said. “Let's face it, this isn't going to work. We're only going to end up hurting each other.” I reached down and tugged on my finger until the ring slid past my knuckle. “I'm sorry, but we can't do this to each other anymore.” I held his grandmother's ring in the palm of my hand.

He didn't fight me on it. Didn't try to persuade me to change my mind. He accepted his ring back and nodded as he tucked it
in his front pocket. He knew I was doing the right thing and that he didn't have the guts to do it himself.