Chapter Text
You consider yourself to be a simple woman with simple pleasures in life.
When you were just a little girl, you had been happy to spend your days chasing frogs through the marsh, climbing large oak trees in the nearby woods, or reading one of your father’s old tomes late into the evening. Living in the country meant that you had to entertain yourself without having parks or libraries readily at your disposal. You also lacked any close companions around your age, with no neighbors for miles and no siblings to terrorize until you were double digits. If you wanted to satiate your boredom, you simply had to make do. Now, after growing into a young woman and moving into the city, you still find yourself satisfied by the smaller things in life.
Smaller things like parking your ass on the couch after another long day at work.
Lord have mercy, it had been a day too. Your boss had you filling out stacks of documents that stood nearly at your waist while he had chatted up whatever white collar client he’d invited to lunch. While you understand that being a legal assistant entails handling sensitive documents, you also know that most legal assistants don’t work for a lawyer who is more than willing to let you handle most of his duties, so long as he gets plenty of time to himself while you slave away. You're competent, he had said that to you on only your second day at the office years ago, and that meant you were rewarded with even more responsibilities. Exhausting responsibilities. Still, you do appreciate it, in a way. More responsibilities meant more experience, and more experience meant that you had an improved chance of busting your way into law school one day, limitations of your gender be damned. If Bessie Margolin could get her law degree at Tulane, so could you. Maybe it sounds like a pipe dream to those of lesser ambitions, but if you are anything, you are stubborn, and absolutely determined to finish your degree the second you finally have the money for it.
Suddenly lurching forward, you’re thrown out of your train of thought by the harsh halt of the trolley. You scramble to secure your bag before it falls over and dumps all of your belongings at your feet, only just avoiding elbowing the man next to you in the face. For a second, he narrows his eyes in annoyance, but your death glare is enough to persuade him into politely shutting his mouth before he can dare to say anything at all. Being packed into the crowded tram like a pissed off sardine in the world's crappiest can really isn’t helping to improve your sour mood. Huffing, you dig through your bag until you produce your carton of Lucky Strikes, hastily lighting one up and sticking it between your lips to soothe your irritation. Tobacco rolls over your tastebuds, instantly soothing you into a much more subdued, less pissed off state. The Great Depression be damned, you’ll always have your number one vice handy.
Besides, it's not like smoking will kill you.
Once the streetcar begins to move again, you reassure yourself that it’s just another few stops and you’ll be home, and then, oh then, after another few hours it'll be time. That thought reduces the scowl on your faces by a centimeter or two as you hum excitedly under your breath. Trying to enjoy your cigarette for the remainder of your ride, you ignore the man next to you subtly scooting away as far as he possibly can.
More room for you, then.
Soon enough, you hop off the trolley’s steps, taking a final few puffs of your cigarette as you make a beeline for your front door. Once you make it inside and deposit your bag safely in the entryway, you immediately begin preparing dinner, choosing a simple dish of chicken and rice for the evening. It only takes a few minutes to whip it together, two steaming plates set on the table just as the front door slams open and closed, signifying the arrival of the only other resident of your home.
Your sister bounds right through the front door, humming a peppy tune as she strolls into the kitchen without a care in the world.
"Heya, sis!" With a bounce in her step, she throws an arm around you as she greets you warmly. Despite only being fifteen, she's already rivaling you in the height department, causing you to dread the day that she'll be able to look down on you, literally. Before you can give her greeting a reply, she catches sight of the hot food, exclaiming, "Ooo, dinner!", then immediately abandons you to park herself at the table.
You roll your eyes as she begins to scarf down her meal without another word. Grace is her first name, but gracious she is not. Sitting across from her at your modest dining table, you pick at your food, settling into your typical evening routine of chatting over your meal.
“Heya to you too, dingus. How was class? Learn anything? Or did you just spend another day chewing the end of your pencil as per usual?” You smirk at her annoyed glare, her food filled cheeks puffing out like an indigent chipmunk at your teasing.
Grace chews her food for several seconds before replying, “Gee, wonder where I picked up the habit? And I learned plenty, thank you! How was work? Did you smoke four packs of cigs again today? You might wanna cut back on ‘em before you go up in flames.” She takes her turn to smirk at your unamused scowl.
You practically raised the hellion single handedly, so you truly can't blame her snarky attitude on anybody but yourself. That doesn't mean you won't snap right back at her, though. To prove that point, you flick a chunk of rice at her shoulder, the practical part of your brain fussing over the wasted food while the sisterly part of your brain tells you to aim for her face next time. Grace simply wipes it off with an eye roll that eerily resembles your own.
‘Well,” you begin, taking a moment to wipe your mouth before continuing on, "as far as I’m concerned, I will smoke to my little heart’s content. It's just you and me, and you sure aren't gonna stop me.” The edge of your smirk falls just a bit, but only by a smidge.
Grace doesn't notice.
Taking a bite out of your admittedly mediocre cooking, you make a point to smile a bit more genuinely at her, clearly trying to steer the conversation in a more mature direction. "So..." you say earnestly, taking your time to sip down some water before you continue, "my show is on tonight. The offer of listening in with me still stands, if you're interested?"
Oh, she could not look more uninterested if she tried, with one brow raised at your words like you had just suggested that the two of you should go backflip into the brackish waters of the Mississippi River for fun.
Turning back to her food, she simply replies, "Yeah, I think I'll have to pass, just like I have every other week. I'm not into old lady shows. Thanks for the offer though, granny."
You launch rice right into her eyeball at that, maturity be damned.
The rest of dinner is an uneventful affair, ending with Grace trekking upstairs to finish whatever schoolwork she’s been neglecting for the day while you finish your nightly chores. Once all dishes are carefully cleaned, you move to scrubbing down the kitchen, then folding the laundry, then mopping the floor, then dusting, then double checking finances, and then finally, finally, it is time. Slipping out of your workwear, you don a simple robe and grungy house slippers that have clearly seen better days. With a glass of sweet tea in one hand and a plate of shitty chocolates your boss passed off to you several days prior in the other, you plop right down on the couch, only pausing to switch on the small radio sitting upon the side table.
A satisfied smile spreads across your face as you prop your feet up on the ottoman in front of you. This is what you've been looking forward to all week. Every Wednesday evening you're treated to listening to your favorite radio drama while getting to do absolutely nothing else. Rarely are you ever idle; this is your time to simply be instead of having to do. Popping a chocolate in your mouth, you perk up when you hear the telltale opening music begin to play, your entire body tensing with anticipation. Oh man, this week you'll hopefully get to hear the long overdue love confession between the two leads. Normally you’d never concern yourself with such silly media, especially media that is typically popular with women over the age of fifty, but this is absolutely your ultimate guilty pleasure. Every other day you are a serious working woman, a dutiful older sister, and a dedicated household head. On Wednesday evenings, you're a youthful dame swept away in the passionate romance of a completely fictional couple. It's glorious.
So lost in your anticipatory excitement, it takes you several seconds to even register that something is wrong. Very, very wrong. Instead of hearing the smooth voice of the usual narrator recapping the events of the previous week’s program, you only hear a man whose voice you don't recognize rambling on and on without a pause. Reeling in surprise, you only catch snippets of the words pouring through the radio’s speakers, slowing piecing together just what was being announced.
“-terribly sorry-“
“-unexpected retirement-“
“-immediate cancellation-“
“-new Wednesday program-“
“-hosted by-"
Oh.
You freeze.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Immediate.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Cancellation.
Inhale.
“AW HELL, SON OF A FUCKIN BITCH!“ You absolutely howl with rage, with disbelief, with despair, screaming more curses that absolutely have your parents doing cartwheels in their graves as you finally process what in the hell just occurred.
The one, singular goddamn thing you had for yourself has been destroyed right in front of you while you're helpless to do fuck all about it except wail like a banshee on your couch, scattering chocolates all over the floor as you throw your arms out in frustration. Why? Why you? Can you not have just one thing, ever? Candies melting on the hardwood be damned, you move to snatch up the radio from its resting place, your fingers gripping it so tightly that they blanche white.
"Canceled?!" you screech at it, ignoring the part of your brain demanding that you compose yourself. "Why would you cancel this without any kind of warning, this is not normal, this is not fair!"
Your little tantrum is only halted when Grace pokes her head around the archway of the living room, unashamedly laughing at your dramatic response, her juvenile mockery pulling you back down from your emotional high. The little twirp doesn't even speak, only giggling at you one more time before skipping back upstairs, obviously full of mirth at her big sister’s suffering like the turd she truly is. Embarrassment quickly conquers all of your other feelings, causing your anger to simmer under your skin instead of coursing freely through you. Regaining your composure, you breathe deeply, fingers itching for a lighter and stress cigarette, now.
Well, shit, there it goes.
Your favorite radio show is forever lost due to unforeseen circumstances, doomed to be replaced by something else that would no doubtably be a million times worse. While you logically understand that this is nobody’s fault, you still want to scream at the top of your lungs so that everyone can know just how important that program was to you.
That thought suddenly inspires you. Things may change if the station knew how greatly the audience cares.
That's it.
You don't even take a minute to ponder on the thought further. Switching the radio off for the evening once you lower it back down to the side table, you move upstairs to your small bedroom with your new mission at the forefront of your mind. Pen and paper in hand, you plop down at your tiny desk and begin to furiously write, your hand working overtime to document the thoughts flowing freely from your brain.
January 13th, 1932
To Whom It May Concern,
I hope this letter finds you well. I simply wanted to express my disappointment and dismay over the fresh cancellation of your station's weekly Wednesday evening segment. I’ve been tuning in to this program since its premier years ago, and found myself in quite a tizzy when it was suddenly announced to be discontinued without any warning. While I'm pleased our beloved host is beginning a peaceful retirement, I am not overly pleased that his work is being retired with him.
I believe it is a tad bit unfair to completely end the show when someone else could simply take over. I may be just one young lady, but I know there are others out there that feel as strongly about this as I. I know that there are other fans who agree that we would rather see our program continued instead of it being forced into retirement with its broadcaster. The story is not complete as it is, and we will be left forever wondering just how our tale was supposed to end before these unfortunate circumstances cut it short. Whatever new program that will fill the Wednesday evening slot simply can’t compare to a show with a loyal, established audience crying out for its continuation! I don't even know who's set to take over this airtime, I didn't happen to catch his name, so I am already less than impressed with efforts to replace a perfectly acceptable program. While I do know that this was not a planned cancellation, I wanted to humbly ask that you at least consider the idea of keeping the show on the air for the sake of your loyal listeners.
Sincerely,
Yours truly
It’s only after you sign off at the bottom of your heartfelt letter that you realize you have no envelopes at the moment. Damn. Oh well, the office surely has some, and you know that it will be fine to use one to send your letter from the company mailbox. It's the least your employer can do for you after everything you've done for him over the years.
Tucking the paper away into your work bag, you trudge off to begin your nighttime routine with noticeably more irritation than usual. You practically slap soap on your face and scrub your skin with more force than is necessary, and when you throw off your slippers before climbing into bed, you practically launch them at the wall. They bounce off and hit the floor with an unsatisfying thud. Only once you've buried yourself beneath the covers do you allow yourself to grumble out a few more choice words under your breath.
"Who the hell up and retires on a Wednesday?"
You swear you hear Grace giggle at that from her bedroom.
Little cretin.
"Alright, I've already notified yesterday's three o'clock of his new bill, I've contacted that new judge about our upcoming case, and I've sent off that contract that was supposed to be signed ten days ago. Did you happen to file those updated bill of sale documents I gave you last week?" You peek over the top of your desk at the secretary, pen stuck between your teeth as you gently nibble on it in thought. There's a slight scratchiness to your throat that serves as a constant reminder for your little episode last night.
The older woman positioned across the room at her own desk simply gazes lazily at you before returning to file her nails with an emery board. "Nope."
The only immediate sign of your frustration is the small twitch in your brow. Patience is not your strong suit, but even you know better than to completely lose your shit at a job that you very much need.
Putting on your best grin, that really is more of a pained grimace, you reply, "Alright. Could you do that before lunch then, please? The client at one needs a few, and I don't have any on hand at the moment."
"Hm, I'll think about it."
"Thanks. You're a gem."
"I'm aware."
Both of you know that you'll end up filing them yourself before the end of the hour.
With a sigh, you lean back into your chair, preparing to get back to work. Now that a new day has arrived, your anger from the previous evening has melted away into subdued bitterness. You rarely completely lose your temper like you did. Sure, maybe you threaten to put your sister into a group home when she's especially annoying, maybe you glare daggers at strangers that are horribly irritating, and maybe you swear enough to make a sailor blush, but you're controlled. Responsible. Some may even say uptight or sour, but that's not the point. The point is that you cannot remember the last time something devastated you to the point of doing something as foolish as screaming at a goddamn radio.
That entire tantrum was silly and immature. That is a fact. You're the head of your household, raising Grace by yourself, yet you had to go and be so ridiculous. Well, no more. You're over this entire thing. So what if the show that you looked forward to every single week was cancelled with absolutely no warning and announced to be over suddenly on air? So what if you have almost no joys in life and one of them was snatched away from you forever? So what?
Your eye twitches.
Let it go, dumbass.
Just as you return to your current task of signing off on eight million papers, you spot the postman approaching the mailbox at the front door. Your eyes flit over to the envelope tucked in one of your desk drawers, with your letter sealed inside.
It would be petty to send it. What does a radio company even care about one sad woman's complaints?
The postman is halfway up the office steps.
What does a fucking romance program matter anyway? It's about time you gave up your more juvenile interests. Perhaps it would do you good to listen to something about finance.
You don't care for finance.
He's digging through the mailbox, gathering up the letters inside. You think back to last night, how spitting mad you were, how devastated you felt at the sudden loss of media you used as a way to escape for just a while. Your eyes move back to the drawer.
If you sent it, what's the worst that could happen?
Pulling open your desk drawer and grabbing the cream envelope sitting inside, you race to the door, thrusting the paper out towards him. He nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise, causing you to immediately apologize.
"Sorry, sir!" you exclaim. "I almost forgot! It's priority, please and thank you."
He accepts it with a strained smile, tucking the letter away into his postbag. Once he's gathered the rest of what he needs, he's gone down the street to complete his daily route, leaving you to return inside.
Well, you tried. If nothing comes of your efforts, then you'll have no choice but to accept the fate of your show, doomed to forever remain incomplete. There was absolutely no way you would ever harass the station into giving in to your demands, no matter how sorely you would miss your Wednesday entertainment; this is truly it. Speaking realistically, you aren't expecting anything to come of your pathetic little plea. Yet, while you know that more than likely the program is over for good, a small part of you can't help but hope that your words will make some kind of difference to someone at the radio station. That's all you can wish for.
You certainly don't expect to receive a reply.