Chapter 53

Jack insists on taking her to the train station the following morning, despite it involving him getting up half an hour before he would normally have done. He gets onto the train with her, ostensibly to put her carpet bag in the overhead luggage rack for her and get her settled in her compartment, but mainly because Jack's never actually been on a train before and if he's going to commit his wife and unborn child to this black smoke producing machine, then he sure as hell wants to check it out first. Well, to say that he has never been on a train would be a lie, but he's never been in one. When he was younger, he and some of the other boys from the tenements would make a game of jumping onto the sides of the freight trains, clinging on like monkeys as the engines chuffed their way through the city to deliver coal to the metalworks. Some of the coalmen got too good at spotting them and they'd had to start riding the back carriages, as if they got too close to the engine then they would get swiped at with the coal shovel. The whistle blows. He has to leave. Katherine does nothing more than peck at his lips and he's almost disappointed until she pulls him into this fierce hug, like she can't bear to let him go.

Katherine watches out of the window until she can't see him waving from the platform anymore, until he's turned into nothing more than a dot in the distance, and then she watches a little longer, as if the act of watching might bring him closer. The window is still wet from the rain they've had overnight, but the morning's bright sunlight throws each droplet into every colour of the rainbow. Katherine takes it as the promise that she believes it to be.

The day feels decidedly less promising when she falls into bed in the little station hotel that night. She's sore after having been sat down for so long, her body unused to the lack of movement. It's pleasant, of course, to have so much time for reading, seeing as the train journey allows for little else, but it feels odd, still. Her and Jack had started David Copperfield last week and it's almost like a betrayal to be reading on without him, even though he's said that it's fine. She lies in the cold, lumpy hotel bed, one hand resting on her stomach, wishing that she could see stars on the ceiling.

The next day brings with it the promise of her destination, though it's difficult to get excited about such things when she's slept so poorly. After only a few months of marriage, she's found herself incapable of sleeping soundly without Jack lying beside her, so she's got about two hours of disrupted sleep and a serious case of bedhead when she sets off that morning.

By the time the train chugs into the station at Dallas, Katherine has long since finished David Copperfield and moved on to Jane Eyre, an old favourite. Looking out of the window, there is a city of flat-roofed buildings and arched windows spread out before her, so very different to New York. Katherine is well-travelled, of course, but this is different. She is alone, travelling for work, heralding a new era in which lady reporters write the hard news. Let them stare, she thinks, as she steps off the train, several people sending sly glances her way at her lack of a chaperone. At eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, she will be reporting on the strike. For now, however, it's probably best to find her hotel.

The hotel in Dallas is substantially nicer than the little station hotel, with a lobby of cool marble and crisp white sheets on the bed. The bed, however, is still far too large for her and her alone. She goes down to the lobby, purse in hand, to call Jack on the telephone, but then remembers that it's six pm and he won't be at work anymore. He'll be at home, in their home, where there is no telephone. Where there's no way for her to reach him. She goes back to her room and sits on the bed.

It shouldn't bother her this much, being away from him. It's not like they spent every day together before they were married. But there's something comforting about knowing that he's close by, only a few blocks walk away should she need him. She's never had to, of course, but she might. It's only a few days. Right.

The next morning, Katherine sets her shoulders and walks through Dallas, notebook and pencil in hand, ready to face a new century, and tries to let the blatant stares of work-roughened men and demure, chaperoned ladies run off her shoulders like water. The smaller railroad station where the strike is due to kick off, however, is a little underwhelming for such an occasion, a low wooden building that squats beside the tracks and smells strongly of coal-tar creosote, so much so that Katherine tries her very best not to let her skirts brush against the walls. An awning supported by half-rotting fence posts stretches out over something resembling a platform, a few raised boards beside the track, shielding those stood beneath it from the sun, bright and warm even in December.

There are fewer people, certainly fewer reporters, than she expected, certainly, but Mr. Ross had said that this was an exclusive. Yet, two men feels uncomfortably exclusive. They stand outside, one of them older, moustachioed and a little hunched, the other a tall, younger man, with the same kind of scruff that Jack gets when he forgets to shave for a couple of days, too caught up in his art. Both of them wear working men's clothes, cheap suits and sweat-stained cotton shirts with neckerchiefs instead of ties, their heads bowed in quiet conversation. Katherine takes a deep breath and walks up to them.

"Excuse me, might one of you be a Mr. Dolphin?"

The younger man peers at her from beneath the brim of his hat with dark eyes, then pulls the cigarette out from between his teeth to answer. "Depends who's askin'."

"Katherine Plumber, reporter for the New York Sun." She sticks her hand out for him to shake, tilting her chin up to look him dead in the eye.

He doesn't take her hand, instead swearing under his breath and casting a disbelieving look at his silent companion. "This has gotta be some sorta joke."

"I assure you," Katherine tightens her jaw, dropping her hand, "I'm perfectly serious about my identity, sir."

The 'sir' ought to make her sound more polite, but it doesn't, it makes her sound angry. Unlucky for her, the dark-eyed man also seems pretty angry, looking up at the sky as if he's appealing to some higher power.

"When I tipped the paper off," he growls, "I asked for the Plumber who wrote the newsboy strike article. Not some flower show reviewer."

"I am the Plumber who wrote the article about the newsboy strike." Katherine purses her lips. "And you never answered my question. Are you Mr. Dolphin?"

The man looks down at her as if she's just slapped him across the face, clearly unused to disrespect, never mind from a woman. A muscle in his jaw clenches, his eyes roving down over her form in a way that makes her feel dirty and unpleasantly seen.

"Michael Dolphin." He says finally, jerking his chin to dismiss the other man who promptly slopes away. Michael leans against one of the dusty posts supporting the station awning, not taking his eyes from her. "An' I s'pose you'll have to do. What you want to know, then?"

You'll have to do. The cheek! "Whatever you'll tell me. Let's start with why you're striking."

"It started with the wage scale – shit, it is." Katherine resists the urge to admonish him for his language. "An' then, when they refused to budge on it, we said we want rules changin'. Like, a limit on how long men are workin'. It's dangerous for them to work a twelve-hour shift – that's how derailments happen. Anyway, they've agreed to arbitrate the wage scale, but nothin's changin' regardin' the rules, so we're strikin', as of eleven o'clock today."

Katherine lets her pen fly across the page of her notebook, brain already whirling with all the possible angles to approach a story like this. Facts, first, she decides, for what she'll send back by telegram this afternoon, then, when she's home, a proper opinion piece, appeal to people's empathy, yes, the thought of an overworked man so tired that he falls asleep at the controls and causes a derailment. She can paint that picture with her words – maybe even ask Jack for some sort of gruesome illustration to go with it, really sell the whole thing -

"Did you really write the newsboy strike article?" The man in front of her asks and she finally looks back up at him, her first page already full of her scribbles.

"I did. Did you really ask for me specifically?"

"Of course."

She's flattered, of course, that others think her work is good. However, she realises, that opinion piece that she's planning will never happen. Mr. Ross wants the bare facts, nothing more. There's no room for her in this, no room for what she wants to say in the papers. They're too fleeting. Like the strikes, they spark revolution, but the papers don't fan the flames. No, that's done by books, speakers, thinkers whose ideas stay in the public sphere longer than a day.

"The newsboys did pretty well off the backa that article, didn't they?" Michael comments, drawing her out of her thoughts. "We want a piece'a that."

The insinuation about Jack and the others riles her. Sure, that article was some of the best work of her career, not only because it brought her the family she's always wanted, but the newsies would have figured something out, she's sure. Probably not something that would have worked so well, sure, but she was just the push they needed for the finish line. She knows that Jack would say different, of course, but that's beside the point. She juts her chin out.

"The newsboys would have won with or without my article. They're good men."

Michael raises his eyebrows, pulling off his hat. "You don't seem much like the kinda girl who'd associate with newsboys."

"Comments on my social status have little to do with the strike, Mr. Dolphin;" she says tartly, returning pen to paper, "what do you hope to achieve?"

"We've already got what we wanted, really. With the wages an' everything. This is just to keep them on their toes, getting' the rules changed would just be a bonus." He says it like it doesn't matter, none of the passion that she's come to expect from union leaders. That said, Katherine's experience is limited to Jack and Davey, and they're hardly representative. Then, suddenly, startlingly, there are fingers on her face, ones with soft pads, nothing like Jack's calloused ones, brushing across her cheek. She jerks away. "Is that a burn scar?"

"That is none of your business." Katherine says, shooting her interviewee a sour look, trying not to give into the temptation of running over to the nearby water pump to wash the residue of his fingers off her skin. She rather wishes that her voice sounded more forceful and less scared.

"Pretty girl like you, with a scar like that?" He smirks. "It's interestin' business, nonetheless. Those newsboys a bit too rough and tumble for you?"

Get this back on track, Katherine. Get this over with. Get out of here. "How widespread is the strike going to be?" Pen, poised. She shifts the hand she's using to hold her notebook, clearly displaying her wedding ring, dull gold glinting in the sunlight, heavy and comforting on her finger. It calms her, regulating her pulse, evening out her heartbeat.

"Gulf, Colorado, Santa Fe –" Michael rolls his eyes, "- don't you have enough for your article, already?"

Katherine looks down at her page, nods, flips the notebook shut, turns to leave. "I think so. Thank you for your time, Mr. Dolphin."

He lunges forward, clasps hold of her wrist a little too hard, those fingertips now digging into her skin. "Hey now –"

Katherine takes a deep breath, looks over her shoulder at him, speaks in as firm a voice as she can muster. "Please let go of me." He doesn't. If anything, his grip gets tighter. Her heart beats faster. Her other hand comes to rest on her stomach before she can even think about it.

"- we've got another twenty minutes before the strike starts. I want to hear the story behind that scar." He increases the pressure on her wrist, pulling her a little closer, leering. She can smell tobacco on his breath, nose-wrinklingly strong. "Unless you've got another story that you'd rather tell me."

"I don't think my husband would appreciate the way that you're speaking to me."

Jack had been right, of course he had been, damnit, he'd been right to be worried. And yes, she can handle herself, of course she can, but this – this is scary. If this was happening in New York, she'd feel safer, somewhere familiar, Jack to run and find, or one of the newsies no more than a street away. Damnit, where's Jack when you need him?

Michael tilts his head to the side, almost amused, as if she's some kitten that he's toying with. "I don't think your husband should be letting a pretty girl like you run around on her own."

"My husband is not my keeper." She spits, flexing her wrist, trying to yank it from his grip.

"Then he doesn't need to know about this, then, does he? I want to hear the story." The man pulls her closer. Katherine feels terror, ice-cold, run down her back. Is nobody around? Is nobody watching? Does nobody care?

Firm, Katherine, firm. "I want you to let go of my wrist."

As she does so, she stamps very, very hard on his foot, driving the tip of her heel into the man's toes. It's not enough to hurt him properly, but it's enough for him to loosen his grip on her wrist, and for her to stumble backwards, away from him, back into the street, where they aren't shielded by the awning, where they aren't alone.

Michael looks momentarily enraged, before schooling his features into something distasteful. "Should have known you'd have a stick up your ass."

"No," Katherine responds, with more bravery than she feels, "but I do have self-respect."

There's a café across the street where she goes in and waits for the strike to be called, announced with the toll of a bell, rung by that odious President Dolphin, and a telegraph message. She watches through the window, a fresh notebook page set before her, the final draft half-written. Katherine orders a second drink, feeling safer, somehow, in the presence of the kindly old lady behind the counter who chats away to her in a Texas drawl.

When the strike is over, Dolphin walking away with nothing more than a lip-curled glance at the café opposite, and the article is written, which takes a good part of the afternoon, the old lady (who, Katherine has by this point discovered, is named Rebecca, has a husband and four children, one of which has just had a baby of their own, a little girl named Olive, which is, in Rebecca's opinion, the worst possible name for a little girl that could ever be chosen; Katherine asks what she thinks about the name Lucy, basking in the praise that Rebecca lavishes upon the choice) gives her directions to the post office, where she hands over the article to the telegram operator and asks to pay to use the phone.

After a long time waiting on the operator, the voice of Miss Rhodes crackles down the line. Katherine has to wait another absolute age, listening to the pale buzzing of the empty line, before there's a rustling and there he is, it's his voice, faint but utterly unmistakable.

"Ace! How's the strike?"

It's an effort to get the words out, choked up with relief at the sound of his voice. She wants to tell him everything, cry down the phone because she's lonely and underestimated and there's a circle of purple bruising around her wrist. But she doesn't, because this assignment is the second-best thing ever to happen to her career and he'll only worry. It's not like this strike was anything like the newsies' one. No violence. No people, really. "I've got everything for my article. I've just sent it, so I should be on my way home tomorrow, all being well."

"I'll get to see your article on the front page o' tomorrow's Sun, then?"

"So long as Mr. Ross doesn't tear it to pieces."

"I'll buy twenty copies."

"One will do just fine." He's ridiculous. "I miss you."

"I miss you too. Hey, 's just a few days, right?"

"Yes, just a few days." Just a few days. She stays silent for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of his breathing on the other end of the line, comforting and rhythmic. Eventually, she laughs, soft. "This call is going to get terribly expensive."

"Worth it to hear your voice."

His response is instant and she rolls her eyes. "You're a sap."

"You love it."

"I love you." Bloody hell, it doesn't matter whether it's the pregnancy hormones, she will not start crying in the middle of a post office. "I'll be home soon, okay?"

She can almost hear the smile in his voice when he says: "I love you too."

When, a few hours later, an errand boy drops by the hotel with a telegram for her from Mr. Ross that says her article is 'satisfactory' (the cheek!) Katherine packs like a woman possessed. Chasing stories is fun, she decides, but going home is better.

It makes her wonder if this is really what she wants, constantly fighting against harassment and having her efforts deemed only satisfactory. She wants to write, of course she does, but there must be other ways to do it. Flipping to the back of her notebook, she reads back hastily scribbled lines of dialogue, descriptions of her favourite places around New York, of the swans on the pond near the Jacobs' apartment, of the grey façade of the lodgehouse, of the cheerful, white-painted windows of their home. What if the things she always thought she wanted aren't what she wants anymore? She knows that Jack will support her no matter what, but will she be letting herself down if she decides that this isn't the life she wants, cavorting halfway across the country, heart aching and wrist bruised, away from her family? Daisy, Race, Davey? Even, perhaps, Miriam now, having exchanged addresses and agreed to write? Jack? Her Jack? Their child?

The strike, if anything, was underwhelming. That's what you get, she supposes, when it's men working desk jobs spread out across the nation and not a band of raucous newsboys. There was no violence, no shattering shop windows, no punches thrown (though she wouldn't have objected to seeing Mr. Dolphin get a few of his teeth knocked out, if she's totally honest). But she's still scared. Travelling across the country alone? It's scary. Being manhandled like that? Terrifying. Nobody has ever laid a hand on her like that before. She's done what she wanted to do now, proved her point, carried the banner. She has led the fight. Maybe now it's time for her to step back. Not necessarily something safer, but more stable. She can still make a difference close to home.

She read a book by Charles Darwin, recently, about evolution. Maybe that's what she has to do; evolve. Maybe it's not giving up on her dreams. Maybe it's just changing with them.