The year is 1957; in a very small (fictional) town in California, women are vanishing in large quantities and no one is talking about it. Aspiring reporter Katherine Fisher is on the case to investigate, despite her colleagues, her boss, and even her straight-laced boyfriend tells her not to. Katherine is about to learn a valuable lesson; when you look for trouble, trouble is going to find you.
Hesterville, California, 1957
"Boss, you gotta put me on this story, I'm good for it! I got all the chops, I know the right words to say—"
"Look, Fisher. You bug me one more time about this story I'm going to strip you of your secretarial work. Your job is to smile, answer phones, and look pretty." My boss Mr. McGee tells me, blowing cigar smoke in my face. I cough, fanning away the smoke and fighting the urge to tell him off.
I'm tired of smiling and looking pretty; I applied to this job because I have a knack for writing. He knows I do; I sent him my writing, sent him stories I've covered, as well as a Bachelor's degree in Journalism from Massachusetts. I'm more qualified than half the men in here. He'd be a fool to not let me cover this story!
I hate that I have to beg him for shit like this; the story was supposed to be about a man who stole fifty-eight dollars worth of pornography magazines from the corner store six blocks down from where my job stood. I already interviewed eye witnesses, plus snagged a confessional from the suspect as well as a few comments from the officer who arrested him. I did tons of extra credit while the man who's supposed to be covering the story is busy trying to get me out of my pencil skirt. Creep.
Speak of the devil, here he comes, strolling in the office, not a care in the world that he's forty-five minutes late and hasn't had his work done by the deadline.
"Got the story, boss. Hello, Toots." He winks at me. I bite back a snarl and smile at him, tightening the sweater around my midsection. He digs into his suitcase and pulls out a pathetically thin stack of paper, littered with coffee stains and typos.
I swear to you my right eye started to twitch.
"Turns out the man that stole the pornos was a minister at some church three towns over. His name is...Franco Kaminsky or something Polish."
The man that stole the magazines was actually a Russian immigrant named Boris Kuznetsov who's a Catholic priest from the rural area of our town who stole the magazines to sway people from temptation. Kuznetsov's plan was to steal all of the magazines so he could burn them as a way to 'cleanse the sin out of literature'. Franco Kaminsky was a story that was covered two weeks ago about a drunk, who claimed he was Jesus, tried to impale himself with a cross so he could resurrect himself three days later.
He would know that had he done his research.
"Actually, Mr. Thomas, his real name is..."
"...Boris Kuznetsov." Mr. McGee interrupted. Snatching the notes I gave him, he handed them to Mr. Thomas.
"Someone else did extra credit for your story. These notes should save you the embarrassment."
"Thanks, chief!" Mr. Thomas replied.
"Yes, that someone is..." I chimed in.
"...I better see that story done by Monday or it's your ass!" Mr. McGee interrupted (again). My pig of a coworker smiled a wide smile and ran his happy self into his office.
"So, you're going to let him take credit for my work? Again?" I asked my boss. Mr. McGee puffed on his cigar.
"Look, sweetheart, you know how this business runs. The readers are not going to listen to what you, a black woman, have to say. Especially one that could lose a few pounds."
"Excuse me—"
"—I'll tell you this. You're lucky you got this job, considering all the other women I've passed up that would've been happy where you are and won't try to rock the boat. Do your job, keep your nose down, and smile. It's that easy. An easy paycheck." Mr. McGee said in a tone that made it loud and clear; I needed to stay in a woman's place.
"Thank you, Mr. McGee." I said, biting back the venom trying to come out.
"Good. Now go home. Your shift has been over. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Can you believe that guy? The nerve!" I cry. My boyfriend slices through the steak I cooked and nods his head.
My boyfriend had just come home from his campaign with Jimmy and desperately needed a beer with a nice plate of steak and potatoes and some quiet. I know he needs silence after a hard day's work but I needed to vent.
"I'm telling you, one of these days I'm going to tell him off!" I add, pounding the table.
"Katherine, don't pound the table. It's very unladylike." He says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. I take a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, dear." I say.
"Just don't do it. And don't yell. Anger isn't becoming of a woman, especially my future wife."
"Okay..." I say. I reach for a beer, but his eyes make me stop myself. I grab the water instead.
"Have you ever thought about losing some weight?" he asks.
"Pardon me?"
"No offense, but the neighbors are talking. You're getting chunkier."
"You didn't have a problem with it when you were dating me."
"Well, since Jimmy and I are running for office, I can't do with having a partner by my side that doesn't look like the image of a First Lady."
"You're running for mayor. Not president of the United States." I throw my napkin on the plate.
"I've lost my appetite. I'm going to bed."
"Don't be like that, Kat."
I'm already storming down the hallways and slamming my bedroom door.
Image of the First Lady my ass. He knew I was no Skinny Minnie when he met me, but because he's running for mayor it's a problem?
My hands find themselves grabbing the noticeable pudge on my stomach, the lumps and rolls on my sides and back. My thighs, once thick and strong, feel like globs of fat and disgust. It's one thing to have your boss make comments about your size, but to have your own boyfriend?
