Three days after returning from Laurel Township, Ellis was still dwelling on the official word he got from Lily. She’d taken it upon herself to phone the sanitarium, said she couldn’t fully rest until knowing for certain. The director only confirmed what the doctor suspected.
Geraldine Dillard had passed away.
In hindsight, Ellis recognized the clues. The dark circles under her hooded eyes. The weariness and ashen skin. The coughing.
Her look of desperation when he’d handed her those two crumpled dollars took on new meaning. He hated more than ever to think of how he’d benefitted from her being in that photo. His one consolation was the donations the article had gained for the family—and now, a seemingly better home than an orphanage for the kids.
That wasn’t enough, though, to let Ellis rest. His mind remained jumbled and his writing blocked, his nightmares preventing any decent rest. The favorable description of the banker should have given him a sense of peace, but didn’t.
Millstone—that was the man’s name. Ellis had learned it from the ticket clerk. Walt the cabbie had been spot-on about asking her for details, although she didn’t exactly celebrate the request. Her initial curt response had wavered only after Ellis offered a small fee—a tactic proven reliable with more than switchboard operators and hotel bellboys. A little skimming through the late-October travel logs, and there it was on the twenty-fifth of the month. Reserved under Alfred J. Millstone were three first-class tickets. The man had even splurged on a private train car.
Destination: Long Beach, California.
Two thousand miles away. It was about as far as a person could get from rural Pennsylvania without leaving the country. With its endless sunshine and Hollywood glamour, the name evoked visions of palm trees and white sandy beaches. But Ellis still worried.
“Reed?”
In the newsroom, a circle of eyes cut his way. At the center stood Mr. Walker, staring with arms crossed.
“Yes, sir?”
“I said, any updates or new ideas?”
“I’m, um, still working on some. Hope to share more soon.”
The editor sighed, just like he had at every one o’clock meeting over the past week, when Ellis gave variants of the same answer. Then, as usual, he moved on to another reporter in the group—this time an energetic new hire with more story pitches than a flapper had tassels—and Ellis returned to his thoughts.
He didn’t realize the meeting had broken up until Dutch appeared before him. “You okay?”
“Yeah…doing fine.”
Dutch was obviously unconvinced. But without another word, he flipped his notepad closed and started toward his desk. It was then that an idea struck Ellis, a combination of elements colliding.
He was far from eager to ask. After their strained history, requesting a favor straight out of the gate wasn’t ideal. But given Dutch’s former job at the San Francisco Chronicle, Ellis had to chance it. He owed that much to Geraldine.
“Dutch, hold on.”
A mix of surprise and caution played over Dutch’s face as Ellis treaded over, suddenly unprepared. A common theme in his life these days.
“Listen, Dutch. I know you and I… It might be too much to ask. We haven’t talked in a while.”
“What are you after?” This was the perfect opportunity for the guy to hear him out, then to tell him to stick it.
“You still got contacts in California?”
“A few.”
“Thing is, I’m trying to track someone down. A banker from Long Beach. Name’s Alfred Millstone.”
Dutch didn’t react. A bad sign.
But then, as if realizing there wasn’t more to the request, he snatched the pencil from behind his ear. “Millstone, huh?”
“That’s right. Alfred J.”
Dutch scribbled in his notepad.
Ellis was about to thank him, but Dutch seemed to head it off, a faint smile in his eyes. “I’ll make some calls,” he said.
Simple as that. It was the start of amends long overdue.
- • •
Hunched over his typewriter, Ellis corralled his focus. No chatting or trips to the coffeepot. No making or taking calls. Within an hour, he managed to scrape together a basic piece about a current battle between Democrat and Republican lawmakers over a bill to legalize beer. He was tempted to suggest they break out barrels of the stuff at their next session; they might get along well enough to finally get something done.
The article wasn’t a showstopper, but it would do until Ellis’s verve for the job returned. All around him, juicy headlines were waiting to be nabbed. Just this week, the City Trust Company case had been tossed out of court, letting sizable crooks off the hook. Meanwhile, down on West Forty-Seventh, two couples had been booked for counterfeiting banknotes after stuffing $2,500 worth in their mattresses. Then there was the Presidential primary, with Franklin D. Roosevelt taking the lead.
Unfortunately, none of that felt as important as it should.
“Here he is, ma’am.” A copy boy had guided a visitor over and promptly sped off.
Ellis had to do a double take. “Ma. What are you doing here?”
“I thought it would be nice…to surprise you.”
Ellis was as befuddled as she appeared to be, though for different reasons. Clutching her pocketbook with gloved hands, she was absorbing the churning of activities and voices and noise that Ellis barely registered anymore. In a simple yellow dress and a cream cardigan, she was a canary caught in a storm.
He rose to greet her, but then braced himself. “Did Pop bring you?”
“He’s at the plant. He’ll be working late, repairing a machine. I took the train.”
Ellis tried to mask his relief. He wondered if his father had any inkling of her excursion. She rarely traveled alone.
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
“I would’ve called ahead, but…I was just hoping we could talk over coffee.”
Her strategy became clear. She suspected Ellis would delay a planned confrontation if given the chance. And she was right.
He regarded his editor’s desk at the center of the city room. Mr. Walker was out for an early lunch, a luxury not meant for everyone. Yeah, reporters could come and go as needed, so long as they were pulling their weight. And lately, Ellis was slacking. What was more, any of his scoops with real teeth—for pieces that mattered—were becoming a vague memory.
Simply put, it wasn’t a wise time to sneak off for a social visit.
But still. This was his mother.
“Sure thing,” he told her. “Lead the way.”
- • •
At a café on Thirty-Ninth, they ordered coffee and crullers. The place was only half full, eliminating the need to yell to be heard. Ellis expected her to ease in with small talk—about neighbors or train travelers or tasty recipes she’d recently discovered. Instead, she got straight to the point.
“Ellis, I came here today because there’s something you need to know. Regardless of how it might seem, your father is genuinely proud of you.”
Oh boy.
“Ma, look. I appreciate you coming all this way, really. But it’s pretty dang obvious how Pop feels—”
“I am not finished.”
The last time he’d heard her speak so firmly, he must have been in high school. His muttered cursing over doing chores had earned him a scolding and a bar of Ivory to the mouth. He could still taste the suds if he really thought about it.
“Sorry. I’m listening.”
She nodded and clasped her now-bare hands on the table. “Back when your father worked at the coal mines, there were accidents on occasion. Far too often, they involved children. And yes,” she said, “I know that you were inspired by the reporters who wanted to help. But, sweetheart, not all of them were in it for a noble cause. There were some, your father said, who would pay miners, or even the police, for tips about terrible accidents. They’d arrive even before the poor families had been given the news.”
At that moment, their chirpy waitress returned. Ellis and his mother fell into an awkward silence as the girl unloaded their order from her tray. “Enjoy,” she said and bounded away, a stark contrast to the mood of the table.
Ellis waited patiently as his mother sipped her coffee. Wherever was this leading?
When she set down her cup, she held it with both hands as if needing to steady herself. “One day, your father was called in for an emergency. He had to help pull out another breaker boy who’d gotten caught in the gears. It took more than an hour.” Sadness glossed her eyes, her voice turning hoarse, and it went without saying: the kid never made it home.
Ellis could still see those boys in his mind, blackened by dust, their eyes shocks of white. He recalled the tension in the truck after leaving the mine, his father fuming over Ellis wandering off. Those mines are no place to fool around, he’d scolded Ellis that day.
“In the end,” she went on, “your father carried the child out. As he laid him down, a reporter was right there taking pictures. The flashbulb snapped, and so did your father. He punched the man over and over until miners pulled him off. Days later, the reporter threatened to sue Huss Coal…”
The rest faded off, but Ellis waited to hear more.
She took a breath. “The company chose to settle. As part of the deal, the reporter demanded that your father publicly apologize. It took everything in him, but he did it.”
Ellis struggled to imagine the words I’m sorry coming out of Jim Reed’s mouth. It was far easier to figure out what had occurred next. “That’s when we moved to Allentown. And Pop started at the steel plant.”
She nodded, and Ellis sat back, the chain of his life formed by links he never knew existed.
“Sweetheart,” she said, reaching across the table to pat his hand. “I know your father hasn’t always been the easiest. But I thought if you knew more, you’d understand. Deep down, he’s truly proud of what you’ve accomplished. He just has trouble separating his past from the work you do.”
Outside the window, people were streaming in both directions. They crisscrossed on the street, strangers in passing, each on their own journeys. Just like Ellis and his father.
No doubt his mother’s theory would be nice to accept, if not for its crucial flaw: his father’s coolness began long before Ellis’s career would have posed any issue.
All the same, Ellis offered a smile. “Thanks, Ma. I’ll keep it in mind.”
- • •
After seeing his mother off at Penn Station and racing back to the paper, Ellis was relieved to find Mr. Walker still out. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of his assistant, Mr. Tate, who bore all the smugness of a truancy officer.
“You’re back,” Dutch said, stepping up to Ellis’s desk. “Got something for ya.”
Mr. Tate was peering at Ellis, then at the clock.
“Reed, you listening?” Dutch pressed.
“Sorry.” Ellis shifted his attention, and recalled Dutch’s task. “What’ve you got?”
“I heard from an old pal who moved to the Los Angeles Times. Turns out he was familiar with this Millstone character. Said he remembered a story they ran about him a few years back.”
“What kind of story?”
Dutch’s expression, the tension in it, told Ellis the news wasn’t good.
“What? Banker fraud, corruption charges?”
“Nothing like that,” Dutch said. “It involved a kid.”
