The Boston Girl

I didn’t have the assignment. Cornish had me over a barrel. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just business. But since we have to eat, I know where to get the best steaks in town.”

That didn’t sound like business to me. Buying a girl a steak dinner was an expensive proposition and a lot of men expected something in return. But I really wanted to do that story and I wasn’t a gullible kid anymore. I knew to keep my guard up.

So I said I’d meet him.

The address he gave me turned out to be a Chinese laundry, which meant we were going to a speakeasy. If Cornish hadn’t already been waiting for me, I probably would have snuck off, but he grabbed my arm and walked me into my first saloon.

Glamorous, it was not. There was no music or dancing. The tables were bare and none of the cups matched. I’d never been anywhere so shabby, but even on a Thursday night it was packed to the rafters.

Cornish ordered us tea, which was whiskey and disgusting. “Maybe you’d prefer wine,” he said and told the waiter to bring me a glass of grape juice, which tasted pretty much the same as the tea. I didn’t drink that, either, but he didn’t let it go to waste and ordered two steak dinners, rare. “I want them bleeding” is how he put it. And another round of “tea.”

I tried to talk about the gala. I asked what time I should get there and what to do if I didn’t recognize someone. He only wanted to talk about himself and his career: his first big assignment covering the mayor’s race in Manchester, murder stories from the crime desk in Worcester, a juicy scandal in Providence. The Transcript was just another stop on his way to New York. “The big time.”

By the time they brought dinner, Cornish was too drunk to cut his meat, so I started to put my coat on.

“Don’t give me the fish-eye,” he said. “I only drink because I’m stuck in that damned hen coop. Once I’m out of there, I’ll be a goddamn choirboy.”

One of the waiters came over and told him to pipe down or he’d throw us out. Cornish pretended to lock his mouth with a little key.

I said I was leaving, but he said, “I thought you wanted to talk about how you’re going to make a big name for yourself at that swell party.” That set him off about how women didn’t belong in the newsroom. Old prunes like Flora and Katherine were okay. “But you’re too pretty,” he said, and if I wanted to write, I should go

home and write sonnets about bluebirds or a romantic story for the Saturday Evening Post.

“But for God’s sake, don’t do any more ‘poor Negro’ stories. It makes you look dumb. Colored people don’t feel things the same as you and me. It’s a scientific fact they have smaller brains than us.

“Besides, all these ‘campaigns’ are run by the communists, and that means the goddamn Jews are behind it. Those people will destroy the country if we let them.”

I could hear my mother’s voice: “They smile in your face but if you scratch a little they’ll try to cut your throat.”

That was it. I started for the door. Cornish got himself out of his chair and stumbled after me but I had to help him through the door and then prop him up against a lamppost. He leaned over to kiss me, and if I hadn’t caught him, he would have fallen on his face. “If you get me a cup of coffee, I’ll make a real pass at you.”

I told him to go to hell.

A taxi pulled over and unloaded a bunch of college boys and I jumped in. It was my first taxi ride and I’m glad I did it, but oh my God, was it expensive. I didn’t eat lunch for a week.

The next morning, Cornish was back on the edge of my desk and said, “You’ll forgive me if I was a little fresh, won’t you, kiddo? I should never mix wine and whiskey.”

I didn’t answer him and from then on he got nothing but the cold shoulder from me. Finally he went back to acting like I didn’t exist, which was a relief.

Never apologize for being smart.

I didn’t see much of Miss Chevalier. She didn’t have a lot to do with the Saturday Club anymore and neither did I. Gussie was still a gung-ho member, but after Irene got married I sort of lost interest.

So when I ran into Miss Chevalier on the street after work, it was like seeing a rainbow. Except for a little gray in her hair and a few lines on her face, she hadn’t changed much in ten years. She was still wearing the same sensible tie-up shoes and her smile still made me feel like I’d won a prize. I asked about the library and Miss Green. She asked about my family and how I liked my job.

I don’t know why, but instead of saying what you’re supposed to say, which is, “It’s fine,” I went off about how the men in the office treated me like I was a servant and that I hated writing about how Mrs. Porridge served pink petits fours in honor of Mrs. Pudding, or who won the dahlia competition. I said, “I’m glad my name isn’t on that damn column.” It just spilled out of me.

Miss Chevalier said, “Oh dear.”

I was still writing Seen and Heard, but with strict orders to stay away from Cambridge and anything “controversial.” I also had to stick to the top of the Social Register and talk only to hostesses or chairladies, which meant that every program was “enlightening” and every speaker “distinguished.”

There were a lot of times I wanted to change “distinguished” to “over the hill,” but I didn’t want to lose my job. It wasn’t perfect, but in a newsroom at least you’re never bored, what with the crackpots on the telephone, the reporters’ tantrums, and the excitement when a story comes in late and a whole section has to be changed at the last minute.

But why was I kvetching to the woman who was my . . . what should I call her? My mentor? My guardian angel?

I said I was sorry.

“Never apologize for being smart,” Miss Chevalier said. “Why don’t you come to my house on Sunday afternoon. I’m hosting a few friends and I promise there won’t be any petits fours. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the conversation.”