Joan of the Journal

by Helen Diehl Olds

The disapproval did not leave Mother’s face, but she said nothing.

Everything finished, Joan found it impossible to settle down to reading. It seemed strangely lonesome in the house without Tim. Their vacation had been going on for a whole week now, and the two had been together most of that time, laughing, chattering and bickering with each other. She missed Tim, even if he often did fail to treat her with proper respect.

She wandered down to the kitchen and was grateful for Mother’s timid suggestion that the ice box needed cleaning. Anything to keep busy! She discovered a quantity of milk. Enough for fudge, she decided. Tim would love some when he came home from work that afternoon. She’d make it for a surprise. She followed the directions Amy had written for her in the back of the thick cook book—a new kind of fudge. It turned out beautifully. Mother praised it with lavish adjectives. Joan knew it wasn’t that wonderful, but Mother was always pleased when she took an interest in anything domestic.

Tim came home for lunch and between mouthfuls he told Joan what he had written up that morning—one really sizable obituary. She hoped he had put in all the details that the Journal Style booklet had said were necessary for the well-written obit. That was pretty good for him actually to report something the first day, she thought. She wished he would tell her in minutest detail, moment by moment, what he had done that morning, but boys were so vague in their conversations. He merely said he had “legged” it all over town—a leg man, is what he was called on the newspaper.

Joan was eager to go over to the Journal for the paper as soon as it was off the press to see Tim’s story. Would Chub remember to call her?

She would go over sooner if an excuse offered itself, she decided as she settled down restlessly with a book on the side steps. If only Uncle John would need her for something; or Miss Betty, who did the society notes, would send her out for candy to nibble on, or for an extra hair net or something, as she often did.

About the middle of the afternoon the call came.

“Yoo-whoo!” It was Chub at the Journal window. “Come on over.”

Joan’s book fell on the ground and she hurried over. In the editorial room, she glanced around. Tim was not at his desk—he had told her that he was to have the one right next to Mack’s. He was probably out on a story. She hoped it was a big one.

Mr. Nixon, the editor, was in a good humor and gave the manager’s niece a smile. The editor seldom wore a coat these days. He was usually in vest and shirt sleeves which made him seem younger than he really was. The collar button at the back of his neck always showed. Often he was cross and would bellow, “Get a job on a monthly,” at all the unlucky ones who tried to plead that their stories were not quite finished. He was just as apt to call pretty Miss Betty a nincompoop if she made a mistake, as he was to say, when she wrote up a good article, “A few more stories like this, and the Journal won’t be able to hold you.”