A woman’s place

Vic Mulder was not the sort of man to pussy-foot around with invitations. Either you entered the editor-in-chief’s office when summoned or, in Carmen’s case, when you had a standing appointment. She gave the door a quick knuckle rap on her way in then shut it against the telephones, typewriters and testosterone that ruled the Dallas Distributor’s fifth-floor office. 

Humidity seeped through the window where Vic stood, phone wedged between his chin and shoulder, fat fingers forcing a cufflink through its hole. His tie lay on his desk, black with navy blue diamonds, a coiled, limp snake. Vic, on the other hand, looked ready to strike at any moment. He mopped his forehead with his sleeve and spat into, on and around the phone. “On the record, off the record, I don’t care,” he shouted. “Just get the story!”

Carmen didn’t have to wonder what story. Today, there was only one. The 16th Street Baptist Church Bombing. She’d give her brand spanking new IBM Selectric for a crack at it—not that she stood a chance. Heaven forbid she fill her pretty little head with messy political matters or worse, get a hole in her stocking. She slid into a hard-backed chair, limp blouse glued to her skin and left eye twitching resentment. In one fist, she clenched a brown paper lunch bag. In the other, a Manila folder with tomorrow’s copy.

Dear Ready to Fold,

I applaud both your courage for taking practical steps to cope with your husband’s gambling obsession and for your willingness to share your plight with readers who face similar trials but are too ashamed by the stigma to seek outside help. Your situation has prompted me to research, and I’m able to provide a list of resources, printed below, including where one might obtain pantry items when there’s no money left for food, and where to find reliable, low-cost legal advice should it be required. 

Yours in Homemaking, be it Happy or Not,

Hettie Henderson