Chapter One
THE RUSTED IRON gate sagged from the stone pillar. A
winter-brown vine clung to the stones. Pale March sunlight
filtered through the bare branches of sycamores and oaks,
throwing thin black shadows as distinct as stylized
brushwork in a Japanese painting. My cane poked through a
mound of tawny leaves, some wizened and wrinkled as old
faces, some damp and soggy, smelling of must and rot and
decay. The rutted road looked much narrower than I
remembered. When I'd last been in the cemetery, most of
the headstones, even those dating back to Indian Territory
days, had stood straight. Now many were tilted and some
had tumbled to the ground, half hidden by leaves. Remnants
of a late snow spangled shaded spots.
I walked slowly, stabbing my cane at the uneven ground.
Nothing looked familiar. Our graves were surely this
way.... Oh, of course. The weeping willow was gone. I'd
always marked our family plot by a huge willow, its
dangling fronds shiny green in summer, bare and brown in
winter. A stump leaned crookedly near the plot.
I paused to rest for a moment. The sharp wind rustled the
bare branches of the sycamores and oaks. I shivered,
grateful for the warmth of my cashmere coat and leather
gloves. I plunged my left hand into a pocket of my coat.
My gloved fingers closed around the letter. The name on
the return address had not been familiar, but I had
recognized the postmark. My first thought when I received
the square cream envelope had been as instinctive as
breathing: Why, it's a letter from home. Second came a
quiver of utter surprise. Home? I'd not been back to the
little town in northeastern Oklahoma since I was a girl.
Home...
When I opened the envelope and lifted out three pages-
cheap paper with violently colored roses twining down one
side, the writing a dense, almost indecipherable scrawl-I
almost threw the sheets away unread. The salutation
stopped me: Dear Gretchen. No one had called me Gretchen
for well over a half century. Gretchen... Across a span of
time, I remembered a girl, dark-haired, blue-eyed, slim
and eager, who seemed quite separate and distinct from the
old woman walking determinedly toward the graves.
I remembered that long-ago girl....
GRETCHEN CLUTCHED THE folded sheaf of yellow copy paper
and a thick dark-leaded pencil, sharp enough for writing
but the point too blunt to break. That was just how Mr.
Dennis did it when he covered the city council. Her first
day at the Gazette, he'd waggled a thick handful of copy
paper. "This is all you need, Gretchen. Take some paper
and a couple of pencils, listen hard, make notes you can
read, write your story fast."
It still seemed strange to walk toward Victory Café and
not hurry inside, welcoming the familiar smells of
cinnamon rolls and coffee and bacon. Victory Café-she was
almost used to the name now. It used to be Pfizer Café but
after Pearl Harbor when people began to talk about Nazis
and Krauts as well as the Japs, Grandmother hired Elwyn
Haskins to paint a new name in bright red and blue against
a white background: Victory Café There was a small
American flag near the cash register and the mirror behind
the counter held pictures of men in the service. Anyone
could bring a photo and Grandmother would tape it up. Now
people were beginning to believe in victory, especially
since the invasion, though it seemed that the convoys
rolling through on Highway 66 were longer than ever and
the trains clacking past day and night pulled more and
more flatcars carrying tanks and trucks and jeeps.
Sometimes soldiers leaned from open windows and waved.
Gretchen stopped for the red light at Broadway and Main.
She waited impatiently. The light was new and lots of
people honked their horns at it when they had to stop.
There'd been a big fight in city council about putting in
a stoplight. Mayor Burkett got his way, insisting their
town needed the light. After all, he'd pointed out,
everything was different because of the war and they had
plenty of traffic, people stopping off from Highway 66 and
soldiers coming over the Missouri line from Camp Crowder
and local folks streaming into town to buy whatever
shopkeepers had to offer. There were lots of people in
town every day, but most of them were old or middle-aged.
The young men in uniform were never there for long, off
for three-day passes and sometimes ten-day furloughs
before their units were set to ship out. There wasn't much
to buy, but people had money from war work. Lots of
townspeople like Gretchen's mom had gone to Tulsa to work
in the Douglas plant. Mom was making good money, more than
they'd ever seen, thirty-five dollars a week. The Billup
Shoe Store had closed. Mr. Billup couldn't get enough
shoes. Most everybody had to depend upon friends or family
to find shoes at Froug's or Brown-Dunkin in Tulsa and
rationing only allowed two pairs a year anyway. Mr.
Pinkley's gas station went out of business, but there was
a motel-Sweet Dreams-on the edge of town, and some new
little houses built from lumber salvaged from old barns
and the abandoned Morris home. Mr. McCrory's gas station
was going great guns despite rationing. He specialized in
repairs and everybody needed to keep their old cars
running for the duration.
When the light changed, Gretchen hurried across the
street. She wanted to run, but she held herself to a fast
walk. She, Gretchen Grace Gilman, was on her way to the
courthouse, the big red sandstone building that looked
like a castle with bays and turrets. When she was little,
she'd made up a story in her mind about a princess held
captive in a turret and a handsome swashbuckler like Errol
Flynn leaping ledge to ledge, sword in hand, coming to the
rescue of the fair maiden. That had been exciting but
nothing to compare to the excitement she felt now. The
courthouse was her beat and so was city hall on Cimarron
Street. Of course, Mr. Dennis or Mr. Cooley covered the
big stories, but there was plenty for Gretchen to write
about. She'd been to both the courthouse and city hall
first thing this morning, checked the sheriff's office for
any overnight calls, asked the court clerk about lawsuits,
dropped by the county records office to see about deeds
registered, and scanned the police blotter at the police
station. This was her last run to the courthouse and city
hall for the day. She'd already turned in her stories for
today's paper. Last deadline was one o'clock, but that was
for late-breaking news, wire stories from the war front,
especially the fighting in Normandy. Ever since D-Day,
they'd had a map on page 1 showing the progress of the
fighting. Most of her stories were turned in by ten. The
press run was at two. She glanced across Main at the café.
The windows needed a wash. Mrs. Perkins did a pretty good
job. But she couldn't-or wouldn't-move as fast as Gretchen
and she didn't help Grandmother the way Gretchen did when
she worked there. That's how Gretchen had expected to
spend the summer until the miracle happened: Mrs. Jacobs,
the junior high English teacher, telling Mr. Dennis that
Gretchen wanted to grow up and be a reporter and that
she'd make a good hand while the Gazette was so short-
staffed because of the war. Mrs. Jacobs told Gretchen to
go ask for a job when Joe Bob Terrell was drafted.
Gretchen had put on her favorite dress-a yellow-and-white-
checked dirndl with starfish appliqués at the shoulder and
near the hem and white ricrac as an accent at the neck,
waist, and skirt-and pulled on short white gloves and a
yellow straw hat. She didn't have any good summer shoes,
but she'd taken her white sandals and polished them and
hoped Mr. Dennis wouldn't notice that the straps were
frayed. She'd never forget, never in a thousand million
years, that May afternoon. School was almost out and Mrs.
Jacobs got her excused from last hour. It was only May but
it was hot, the temperature nudging toward ninety.
Everybody said it was going to be a hot summer, the summer
of 1944. But Gretchen didn't remember any summers when it
hadn't been hot and dry and sometimes the wind blew dust
through town, coating the buildings, turning the sky a
smudgy orange. At the café, they'd wipe everything with a
damp cloth, but it was hard to keep the dust out of the
booths and off the tables and chairs and they'd come home
to a house with a fine layer of dust on everything. It
wasn't dusty that May afternoon. The sky glittered a
sharp, bright, clear blue and she'd held tight to her hat
as the Oklahoma wind gusted, bending the trees, skittering
trash down the street. When she got to the Gazette office,
she'd stared at the door and been so scared she'd almost
turned and run away. Could she do it? She was editor of
the Wolf Cry, the junior high newspaper. Mrs. Jacobs liked
her stories, had given her bylines all this past year. One
story, the one about Millard, Mrs. Jacobs sent in to the
interscholastic contest. When Gretchen won first prize,
she'd felt funny, happy, and sad at the same time. But
Millard would have been proud for her. Mrs. Jacobs had
told Gretchen to cut out all her stories and take them to
show Mr. Dennis. Mrs. Jacobs called them "clips." Somehow,
her hand sweaty, her stomach a hard tight knot, Gretchen
opened the door and walked inside. To her left was a door
marked ADVERTISING CIRCULATION. Straight ahead was a
square room with a half dozen desks. A telephone shrilled.
In one corner, the clacking Teletype spewed out paper in
an endless stream. Mrs. Jacobs had brought their whole
class to visit the Gazette last fall and she'd been most
excited to show them the Teletype, the very latest news
from United Press coming in over a leased wire. Only one
desk was occupied. A stocky man, shiny bald except for a
fringe of gray hair, typed so fast it sounded like a
machine gun. Smoke wreathed upward from a pipe cradled in
a ceramic ashtray shaped like the state of Oklahoma. A
door in the far wall banged open. A smell of hot metal
rolled toward her. An old man with long sideburns and a
big white mustache stuck out his head, shouting to be
heard over a clattery metallic noise. "That newsprint
ain't here yet, Walt. You better check again." The door
slammed, cutting off the metal ping of the Linotypes,
making the newsroom seem quiet in comparison. Gretchen
walked slowly toward the occupied desk. "Mr. Dennis."
He continued to hunch over the big old typewriter, eyes
squinting in concentration, fingers flying.
"Mr. Dennis." His head jerked around. Deep lines grooved
the editor's round face. His mouth turned down. Greenish
blue eyes glittered beneath bristly brows. He
glowered. "What do you want, girl?"
Gretchen wanted to run away. But he'd told Mrs. Jacobs he
had to have somebody quick. Gretchen thrust out her hand
with the folder holding her clips. Her hand shook. "Mrs.
Jacobs said for me to bring my clips. I'm Gretchen
Gilman."
He grabbed his pipe, took a deep puff. His thick eyebrows
were tufted like an owl's. He snapped, "I told her I
wanted a boy. She said nobody was good enough. So here you
are." The emphasis on the pronoun was sour. "How old are
you, girl?"
Gretchen stood as tall as her five feet three inches would
stretch. "I'm almost fourteen." Well, she'd be fourteen in
September. That was almost, wasn't it?
"Fourteen." He heaved a sigh. "God damn this war." He
puffed on the pipe, pinned her with his glittering
eyes. "Can you write, girl?"
"Yes." Her answer came out clear and definite, as definite
as the crack of the exhaust when Dr. Jamison floorboarded
his old car, as definite as the peal of the bells from the
Catholic church on Sunday mornings, as definite as the
big, black headlines yesterday about the Germans fleeing
Monte Cassino.
The editor studied her a moment longer, reached out for
her clips, riffled through them, stopped to read one. He
took so long, Gretchen knew he was reading it twice. When
he looked up, his dark impatient glance swept her up and
down. "Don't believe in women in a newsroom. Except for
soc." He pronounced it "sock," his voice a rasp,
reflecting a newsman's disdain for the fluff of the
society page. "But there's a war on." He tapped the sheet.
She leaned forward and knew it was the story about
Millard. "I guess you know that. Okay, girl. We'll give it
a try." He handed back the clips. "You can start now. Take
the plain yellow desk at the back. The metal desk belongs
to Willie Hurst. Sports. He retired years ago, but he's
back to help me out. Willie's off to San Antonio for his
grandson's wedding. The desk that looks like a tornado hit
it belongs to Ralph Cooley. He used to work for INS."
Gretchen's eyes widened. INS! She'd never known anybody
who was a reporter for one of the wire services. Mrs.
Jacobs had told her all about the three wire services,
International News Service, Associated Press, and United
Press. Nobody ever called them by those long names. They
were INS, AP, and UP. To be a reporter for one of them was
as magical to Gretchen as owning a flying carpet.
Mr. Dennis puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. "Used
to." His tone was dry and a little sad. "But I got to use
him. There's nobody else left. Joe Bob Terrell got called
up. He left last week." The editor jerked his head. "The
desk with the rose in a vase is Jewell Taylor's. Soc. Get
on the phone, call the police station, ask if there's
anything new on the blotter. You can come in every
afternoon after school and we'll see how you do. If you
work out, you'll be full time when school's out. Five
bucks a week."
As Gretchen moved past, her heart thudding, the editor
glanced at her hat. "School clothes will do from now on."
And here she was, a reporter for the Gazette, out on her
beat. Gretchen took the courthouse steps two at a time. It
seemed a long time ago that she'd first walked into the
Gazette office. Now it was a familiar place. She still
tensed whenever Mr. Dennis called her name, but he didn't
glower at her anymore. Yesterday, when she wrote a story
on Rose Drew's plans to go to San Diego to see her
husband, a navy petty officer, before his ship left port,
Gretchen almost hadn't turned it in. She'd laid the story
next to her typewriter and poked in another sheet of copy
paper and started the kind of story she knew Mr. Dennis
expected:
Mrs. Wilford Drew will take the train to California next
Tuesday in hopes of bidding her husband farewell before
his ship leaves for the Pacific theater. Mrs. Drew has
worked at Osgood Beauty Salon for eight years. She...
Gretchen yanked out the sheet, threw it away. She picked
up her first effort, pasted the three pages together, and
placed them in the incoming copy tray on Mr. Dennis's
desk. She went back to her desk and began typing up the
list of civic club meetings, shoulders tensed, waiting for
Mr. Dennis to clear his throat, the grumbling roar that
usually preceded a spate of impatient instruction.
He cleared his throat. "Girl."
She sat still and tight.