“Thatismajor. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to ignore it, obviously.” Beverley seems to have rehearsed the answer. “I can’t go on television. I barely got through last night.”
Margot tucks the letter back into the envelope and studies her friend. “You know you don’t have to do this, Bev—any of it.”
“What do you mean?” Bev’s hand goes to her neck, a habit of hers.
“The radio’s been on all day. The TV, too. And your scrapbook, with all the news stuff…” Margot knows Beverley keeps every newspaper article she comes across about crime, kidnapped women, shithead husbands…
“I don’t want to miss anything important.”
“Right. But you do know you are not personally responsible for the safety of other women just because of what your husband did, don’t you?” Margot fixes her eye. “It’s not your fault.”
Beverley briefly looks taken aback, and then the radio flicks over to the evening news. Margot sees her straighten to attention once more. It must be exhausting to be so hyperaware all the time.
“We cannot keep bad people from doing bad things.”
Bev blinks up at her, blue eyes wide, clear and determined. “Can’t we?”
Four
The Clackers arealready in the office. Elsie attempts to arrive before them most days to prove how dedicated she is to her position, but it is as if they sleep in the walls, an army of robots assembling as soon as the lights spring on. Even if Elsie somehow got in before the sun came up—arriving, her eyes red ringed and sore, as the tobacconists set out their stalls—the women would be at their desks, straight backed in pastel pussy bows, clack, clack, clacking away at their typewriters.
When Elsie was made assistant to the newspaper’s editor, Paul Hunter, she thought that she’d made it, that she was a step closer to her dream of one day writing for theLos Angeles Signal. She knew she was smart enough, hardworking enough, that she had more qualifications than most of the men in the office. She had notebooks crammed full of story ideas, sample columns, corrections she would make to previous days’ articles. Perhaps she could have a little section to oversee. Books? Theater? Instead, she finds herself infuriatingly stuck, fetching coffee, typing letters, sourcing Dodgers tickets for Paul’s most valuable contacts.
She takes a seat at her desk. It’s neat, with just a few books lined up—Joan Didion, Katherine Anne Porter, Truman Capote—her typewriter always clean. A newspaper lies open to the crossword, almost complete. As her colleagues flow in, her mind scratches away at the final clue.Capital of Albania.She’s sure she knows it.
She greets the morning’s arrivals with a smile, a “Good morning, Charles,” a gracious acceptance of the work they sling on her pile.
“Tell Hunter I’m still waiting for his notes on the Bobby Seale story. Did they get lost somewhere?”
“I need to switch my meeting with Paul from eleven forty-five to three fifteen. You think you can remember that, sweetie? It’s important. I’ve got Gregson on my case.”
Yes, Sweetie could remember it. Sweetie would run rings around the rest of them if she were given the chance—although she could never show that she felt herself worthy of more than just an assistant’s job. She could never mark herself out like that. Promising young women didn’t get on well at theSignal. Forget sloppiness with a typewriter; the worst thing you could be labeled as at this office was a firecracker.Ah.Elsie reaches for a pen, scrawls the lettersT-I-R-A-N-A.
Paul Hunter arrives just after nine, and Elsie is intrigued to see that there is a woman with him. She is tall. Her hair, unlike that of the other women in the office, is not pin curled or frozen with Aqua Net. It is wild, frizzy, loose around her shoulders. She is not dressed like the Clackers or the assistants, either. She is not even wearing a skirt or heels or makeup. She has a pantsuit on. The men will lose their minds at a pantsuit.
“All right, listen up, everybody.” Hunter claps his hands until the hubbub dies down. Above, an industrial light bulb flickers as a bluebottle fries.
“This is Patricia Fowler, our new reporter.” He seems to gesturespecifically to the pantsuit. “We’re lucky to have her on board. She’ll be an asset to the team.”
Patricia looks as if she is about to speak, but Paul places a firm hand on her wrist.
“She has a ton of experience, most recently at theTimes.”
The Clackers raise their eyebrows. Patricia, Elsie notices, is glaring at Paul’s hand on hers.
“She’ll be working with Mattson and Hope on news, assisting Heston on crime and running the domestic column, of course.”
Elsie resists the urge to scoff. How comethiswoman has been brought in as a reporter and she’s still running around after Paul Hunter? Elsie is smart enough to do a reporter’s job; she knows she is. Sure, she doesn’t have this Patricia’s experience at theTimes, but what else can she have that Elsie doesn’t?
“Straight to it, then,” Hunter barks. “Department heads: in my office.”
Elsie longs to be called into the morning meeting—to be offered a seat at the table, to be in the thick of it, floating her own story ideas.How about something on women’s roles in the anti-war movement across the state? What about a profile on Bobbi Gibb, the woman who snuck in and ran the Boston marathon alongside all those men?Instead, she watches as several identical figures file into Paul’s office, their trousers the color of burned toast, their pallid bald spots deprived of sunlight. Then suddenly, to Elsie’s astonishment, Hunter stands and beckons her in through the doorway. She inhales sharply, scrapes back her chair so fast that it screeches. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps the hiring of Patricia has opened his eyes. Perhaps hefinallyhas a story that needs her considered female perspective. Even if it’s predictable—maternity statistics, women’s health, some Hollywood wedding—she’ll do it.
By the time she reaches the door, he has sat down again, and thegroup is discussing the headlines. Selman, the deputy news chief, is listing the day’s top stories: missing women, civil rights marches, John Lennon hates Jesus.
She clears her throat.
