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“I grew up with oil derricks,” Edna said suddenly. “Pipe lines and breakout tanks. And a father beaten repeatedly by the Standard.”
“Is that how you came to write the History of Under-handed?”
“Do you think I had a choice?”
“I don’t know,” said Bell. “Nellie didn’t respond to your father’s losses by becoming a reporter.”
“Wouldn’t you say that pursuing justice for women is the other side of the same coin?”
“How?”
“Of trying to make things right.”
“No,” said Bell. “Enfranchisement is a cause, a worthy cause. Writing the truth is more like a calling. So maybe you’re right. Maybe you had no choice.”
“You’re not making this easier.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what your quandary is. Not makin
g what easier?”
She fell silent again. Bell tried to reengage her. “What about Nellie? Did she take your father’s losses as hard as you did?”
Edna thought a moment. “Nellie loves him as fiercely as I do. But she wasn’t around for as much of it. She’s traveled ever since she put her teens and pinafores behind her. Here today, gone tomorrow.”
“Maybe she was trying to get away from them.”
“I don’t know. She’s always on the road—and at home wherever she alights.”
“You travel, too.”
“Like a hermit crab. I carry my home with me. No matter where I land at the end of the day, I’m at my typewriter. I thought it was time to stop writing, my crusade over.”
“Is there a purpose to stop your writing?”
“I thought I was ready to stop. But the new oil strikes make it a new story. And now the unrest in Baku threatens shortages that could upend the petroleum industry all over the world. Imagine what must be going through Mr. Rockefeller’s mind at a moment like this.”
“What is in Baku for him?”
“Half the world’s oil. And a well-established route to the customers. If they burn the Baku fields, who will supply the Russians’ and the Nobels’ and the Rothschilds’ markets? JDR, that’s who, even if it’s true he retired, which I never believed . . . Listen to me! I’m too obsessed with JDR to stop reporting on him. Just when I think I’m done, I learn something new.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve heard rumors—speculation, really—that Rockefeller uses his publicists to communicate secretly with his partners. They plant a story. It gets printed and reprinted in every paper in the world, and those who know his code get his message . . . Boy!”
She gave two pennies to a passing newsboy hawking the early-morning edition of the Sun and scanned the paper in the blazing window of a lobster palace. “Here! I’ve traced this one back to last January. It’s supposedly a letter he wrote to his Sunday school class from his vacation to France. ‘Delightful breezes. I enjoy watching the fishermen with their nets on the beach, and gazing upon the sun rising over the beautiful Mediterranean Sea. The days pass pleasantly and profitably.’”
Bell said, “It sounds perfectly ordinary. So ordinary, you wonder why the papers print it.”
“Any pronouncement the richest man in America makes is automatically news. They change details to keep it up to date. After he returned from Europe they added the introductory ‘I recall, when I was in France,’ et cetera. Recently they added ‘the sun rising.’ I’m sure it’s a message. Maybe it doesn’t matter—except it might, and I can’t stop writing about him . . .” She leafed through the paper. “Here’s another I’ve been following in the social sections. I cannot for the life of me figure it out, but it has to be code.” She read, “‘Monmouth County Hounds, Lakewood. First Drag Hunt of the season. John D. Rockefeller in his automobile was in line at the start, but soon dropped out.’ And this, supposedly about him playing golf. ‘Standard Oil President Rockefeller was gleeful over his foursome victory. Dominated the links with long sweeping drives—’ Why are you staring at me, Mr. Bell?”
“You should see your face. You’re on fire. Congratulations!”
“For what?’”
“An excellent decision not to retire.”
Suddenly a ragged chorus of young voices piped, “Extra! Extra!”
