The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(99)

So many point the finger at us, at the unscrupulous work of yellow journalism, but as I look back at each individual decision we made, I don’t know what I would have done differently. It’s easy to view events with the benefit of hindsight, but in the moment, when a young woman was being imprisoned, when a country was being destroyed, what were we to do? Who can stand by and say nothing when hundreds of thousands are massacred? It is undeniable that mistakes were made, but we did what we did with the best of intentions or so I’d like to think.

I have to hope it is enough.

I head toward the Journal offices for the last time to pick up my final paycheck. I’m taking a risk walking away, but between the money left to me from my father and the money I’ve saved since I began working here, it’s enough to give me the courage to take the chance.

A lump fills my throat as I make my way up to the newsroom, to the familiar shouts and sounds of typewriters pinging away.

After I’ve picked up my payment for the Recogidas article, for a moment, I stop and take it all in. This is where my journalism career truly began, and even though it feels like it’s time to move on, it’s still hard to let go completely.

I run my fingers across my old desk, my gaze sweeping across the newsroom.

I exchange quick good-byes with the rest of the newspaper staff, Hearst nowhere to be seen, and then with one last look, I walk out of the room and make my way through the building, heading down to Park Row.

Johnny and the rest of the newsboys are out selling the afternoon editions.

“Where are you headed?” he asks me. “Chasing a hot story?”

I shake my head. “I’m leaving the Journal.”

“We’ll miss you.”

I smile through the threatening tears. “I’ll miss you, too.”

“Will we still see you around Park Row?”

“Absolutely.”

I reach out and give him a swift hug.

I try to tell myself that there will be other papers, other opportunities. This is just the beginning.

I walk farther down the street. A man stands at the end of Park Row, waiting for me.

Rafael strides forward, closing the distance between us.

We’ve spent every day since we reunited in Santiago together, and where I once couldn’t see myself spending my life with another, now I can’t imagine my life without him in it.

“I didn’t think I’d see you until later,” I say.

“I had a break from my meetings. I wanted to come see how you were faring. I thought today might be hard for you. Would you care to walk for a bit?”

“A walk sounds lovely.”

I take his arm and we set out down the street.

“I read your piece on Recogidas,” he says. “You should be proud. You brought the prison to life and you told those women’s stories.”

“It didn’t have quite the panache of Evangelina’s tale. No front-page, screaming headlines.”

And still, it’s the article I’m most proud of.

“Maybe not, but it was still some damned fine reporting. Not every story has to be sensational to matter. You shared the stories of the other women, the ones who were overlooked.”

“I tried.”

“What will you do now?” he asks.

“I still haven’t decided. It was the right thing to offer Hearst the Recogidas story—after all, I went down to Cuba on the Journal’s dime. Besides, you said it yourself—it’s an important story. I wanted it to reach the most readers possible. Right now, the Journal has the highest circulation.”

He smiles. “Smart move.”

“I like Hearst. And I appreciate the work he’s given me. But I don’t know that I can keep this up. The stunt reporting and all of it. We may have grown our circulation to an unmatched amount, but what have we lost in the process? The Journal’s name is now synonymous with more exaggeration than truth.”

“Are you saying you want to stop working as a journalist for good?”

“No. I’m not sure such a thing is even possible. It’s in my blood now and it’s a hard thing to shake. I suppose I want to get back to the types of stories I set out to write about from the beginning. To write about pressing issues facing women, to shine a light on the stories others ignore even if they aren’t the sensational ones. Did you know that the newsies haven’t had their pay set back to the rate it was before the war?”

Rafael shakes his head.

“Hearst and Pulitzer charged them more money for the newspapers they sold for them because they were selling in much greater demand during the war. But now the war is over, and the demand is less, and those boys are still forced to pay more for the papers they buy to sell on the streets. And on top of it, they aren’t even refunded for the unsold papers. They’re children and they’re desperate, and two of the wealthiest men in the city are exploiting them for profit. Those are the kinds of stories I want to tell.”

“Then you should go for it. You’re a great writer, Grace. If anyone can do it, it’s you. You’ve built a name for yourself, hard as it is. Use it to tell the stories you want to.”

I stop, turning and facing him, my hand on his arm. “Thank you. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

“So now that you’ve figured out what you want from work, what about the rest of it?” For a moment, he looks a bit unsure. “What about us? I love you, Grace. I’m in love with your spirit, and your mind, and the way you’re determined to make the world better. I’ve loved you for a long time.”