Epilogue
Jesse
Seven years later . . .
Seated at one of the workbenches at O’Connor and Caputo, formerly known as Putnam Press, Jesse was working on composing the type formes for the latest edition ofEchoes Throughout Chicago, but could barely keep his focus thanks to Emma and Giuseppe bickering over who would cover the following week’s story on the opening of Chicago’s Northwestern Elevated Railroad nearby.Echoes Throughout Chicagomight not have been the only newspaper that Emma wrote for, but it was one hundred percent her own, with an impressive readership of around two thousand subscribers. Since the newspaper belonged to Emma, she had control over who wrote for it, oftentimes featuring articles written by people like Giuseppe or other typesetters, rather than only those written by other journalists. Sometimes Claire and Charlotte wrote forEchoes Throughout Chicagoas well, especially when they wanted to call attention to a particular charity event they were helping organize or a cause that they were supporting.
Jesse looked up from the forme for a moment and smiled a little as he admired his business. O’Connor and Caputo was a small print shop compared to most. It only employed a handful ofpeople, most of whom came in part-time. Thomas and Ellis were two of its employees, but both of them spent most of their workdays over at Hughes Press instead. And so, Jesse and Giuseppe carried out most of the business at O’Connor and Caputo themselves.
Jesse loved it.
Giuseppe’s voice cut through Jesse’s thoughts.
“Please, Emma, let me write this one. I can interview people on my way to work. You, on the other hand, live right upstairs. You’re far too removed from the struggle of the common man to sufficiently capture the impact that the railway will have on us regular Chicagoans.”
Even though it was Emma’s newspaper, Giuseppe still liked to push his luck when it came to trying to convince Emma to let him write something that she herself had been interested in writing. Always eager for a challenge, Giuseppe Caputo practically leapt at every interesting story that came his way.
Emma scoffed and arched an eyebrow. “Are you trying to be funny? Patrick takes you to work in the carriageat leastthree days a week. Besides, I live right here, in the heart of Chicago, in my own little abode, while you return home to your mansion—”
“Mymansion?! It isn’t mine! It’s your father’s!”
“—where you’re waited on by servants. I’m sorry, Giuseppe, but you live a far too luxurious life to be the right person for this one.”
“Luxurious life?! Have you lost your head?!Youare the one who was waited on by servants for most of your life! I was raised in Little Italy! Right off of Taylor Street! You saw my tiny childhood home yourself when my parents had everyone over last Easter!” Giuseppe let out a huff and spun around in a little circle, raking a hand through his hair. “Do youreallythink thatI’mtoo removed from the struggles of—”
Emmaburst out laughing.
“It iswaytoo easy to rile you up,” she said, shaking her head. “If it’ll really mean that much to you, you can write it.”
Giuseppe grinned.
Flicking her wrist in an all-too-familiar Arthur-esque manner, Emma spun on her heel and said, “I’llwrite about the Chief Milk Inspector’s intention to ban formalin in milk.”
Giuseppe’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait a minute.” He hurried after her as she strode toward Jesse. “That sounds more interesting. Can I have that one instead?”
“No.”
“Please?”
Jesse snorted and threw a random letter at Giuseppe.
“Just be satisfied with what you have,” he said as the letter sailed toward his former roommate.
It struck Giuseppe in the chest, and he caught it before it hit the floor.
“But what she has is better,” Giuseppe whined.
“You weren’t like this when we met, you know.”
Giuseppe heaved a very fake-sounding sigh. “It seems that being with Patrick really has ruined me.”
“In more ways than one, I bet,” Jesse remarked with a smirk.
Giuseppe hurled the letter back at him, but it missed and flew into the wall. Emma shook her head in mock chastisement.
“What kind of unprofessional print shop is this?” she asked.
“The kind that’s home to a newspaper whose stories are sometimes so brutally honest about the state of the world, no one else will print them,” Giuseppe replied.
