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OTTAWA, ILLINOIS

—August 1931—

Catherine Wolfe paused for a moment on her way into work, stopping at the corner of East Superior Street to catch her breath. It was normally a seven-minute stroll to the studio from her house, but these days it took her much, much longer. As she limped down Columbus Street, the sight of the white church lifted her spirits; it was like a second home to her. It was where she had been christened and baptized; where she took communion; where she would marry one day…

She had lots of blessings, she thought to cheer herself as she made her way along, counting them off as though they were the beads of her rosary. There was her health: for Catherine, despite the limp, was in fairly good health otherwise. There was Tom Donohue: the couple were due to be married in January 1932. There were her friends’ blessings: Marie had had a healthy little boy, Bill; and Charlotte Purcell a girl, Patricia, who was not born early. And there was her job. Six million Americans were currently unemployed: Catherine earned $15 ($233) a week, and she was grateful for every cent.

She had made it, finally, to Radium Dial. There was only Marguerite Glacinski from the old gang to say hi to now. As Catherine made her awkward way over to her desk, she felt the other girls’ eyes on her. Her limp, she sensed, was “causing talk,”1 but Mr. Reed never criticized the quality of her work, so she tried not to let the gossip bother her.

She had just begun weighing the material when the girls nearest the window sent the message round that Mr. Kelly and Mr. Fordyce had come on a visit: the president and vice president of the firm, all the way from Chicago. The girls straightened their blouses and Catherine ran a nervous hand through her dark hair before she pushed herself up from her desk and limped across the studio to the stockroom.

She was partway there when Mr. Reed and the executives came into the studio. Mr. Reed was pointing out various aspects of the work, but Catherine had this funny feeling that the visiting officials were looking only at her. She got what she needed and made her slow way back to her desk. Mr. Reed and the other men were still standing there, having an inaudible conference under their breath. She felt inexplicably anxious, and turned to face the windows, lit by the August sun.

The sunlight was blocked by a shadow.

“Mr. Reed?” asked Catherine, looking up from her work.

He wanted her to come to the office; she made her tortuously slow way there. Mr. Kelly and Mr. Fordyce were also in the office. She fiddled with her hair again.

“I’m sorry, Catherine,” said Mr. Reed suddenly. Catherine looked at him in confusion.2

“I’m sorry, but we have to let you go.”

Catherine felt her mouth drop open, suddenly dry. Why? she wondered. Was it her work? Had she done something wrong?

Mr. Reed must have seen the questions in her eyes.

“Your work is satisfactory,” he admitted, “it’s your being here in a limping condition.”

She looked from one officer of the company to the next. “Your limping condition is causing talk,” Mr. Reed went on. “Everyone is talking about you limping. It’s not giving a very good impression to the company.”

Catherine hung her head, though whether with shame or anger or hurt, she was not quite sure.

“We feel…” Mr. Reed broke off for a moment, to make eye contact with his bosses, who bestowed on him an agreeing nod of endorsement: they were all in this together. “We feel it is our duty to let you go.”

Catherine felt stunned. Shocked, wounded. “I was told to go,” she remembered later. “I was told to go.”

She stepped out of the office, left the radium men behind. She picked up her purse and limped back down the stairs to the first floor. All around her was familiarity—for nine years, six days a week, she had spent her life in this studio. The walls of the old high school seemed to ring for a second with the laughter of the girls she had known there: of Charlotte and Marie; Inez and Pearl; of Mary; of Ella; of Peg.

No one was laughing now.

Catherine Wolfe, fired for being sick, swung open the glass door at the entrance of the studio. It was six steps down to the sidewalk, and on every one she felt her hip ache. Nine years she had given them. It had meant nothing.

No one watched her go. The men who had fired her got on with their day, Mr. Reed no doubt enlivened by the presence of Messrs Kelly and Fordyce; he was a company man, and the opportunity to rub shoulders with the bosses was not to be missed. The girls were too busy painting to put down their brushes. Catherine knew, as she reached the final step, what they would all be doing inside. Lip… Dip… Paint.

No one watched her go. But Radium Dial had underestimated Catherine Wolfe.

The firm had just made a very big mistake.