Chapter 41

 

 

“Last mail call!” Mel shouted as he dropped the final bag of Women’s House Magazine reader mail for Samantha Says on her desk empty of all personal possessions, and where only her green typewriter and matching telephone remained.

Mel had called Sam back to the office to collect the last batch of mail, only because he didn’t feel like dealing with it himself. The bonus was that it completely inconvenienced her.

Most of the typists had already cleared out their things, and personnel had processed half of the company’s termination paperwork. One half of the bullpen was full of bare desks where a few lingering employees mulled around trying to look busy for the last issue they would be publishing. Across the other half was a scuffed linoleum floor full of endless brown cardboard boxes ready to transfer to the New York City headquarters.

“May you drown in your letters,” Mel added with a growl.

Even after the stunt she pulled, sneaking in April 1972’s column after her formal termination, he had allowed Sam to return one last time. It wasn’t on his own kindly merit, however. One call from Mr. Getty reminded him that the magazine had to go out with a bang, with Sam at the helm—or else. Mel losing any chance of relocating to New York City was the or else.

“Would I be permitted to keep my typewriter?” Sam asked hopefully.

She had grown quite attached to her portable Smith-Corona, which boasted unprecedented typing speeds. Sam recalled that very first sentence she had ever typed: The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Every letter of the alphabet captured in a single sentence, and the day her fingers first gained familiarity—and love—for the expression of language. That sentence met its master as the advertising slogan said, “No other portable has the power to make fox fur fly like the Smith-Corona electric.” How true it was, as Sam had sent a lot of fur flying recently.

“Fine,” was Mel’s one-word answer.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Sam asked, looking up at Mel.

She already knew why. She was better at his job than he was, and he couldn’t stand to accept it. But she wanted to hear it from his lips. Or at least whatever version society had been spoon-feeding him to believe.

“Miss Stanton, you are not even on my radar enough to hate. You’re nothing but a simple-minded, status-climbing, underhanded feminist who thinks she is better than everyone else at this rag all because you make up facts about medicine and managed to get the owner to fall in love with you.”

“They wouldn’t be called facts if they weren’t true. That would be called fiction.”

“I’m so tired of ugly spinsters like you thinking you know what women want better than their husbands do!”

“As a woman, I would think I would have a natural advantage.”

“I almost forgot to add that you are a smart-aleck too, Samantha.”

“That part may be true, but it’s not intentional. It’s not like I go out of my way to be smart. I just naturally am.”

“You make my point for me.” Mel began to walk away, then he stopped and turned. “Never seeing your smug face again will be the second-best day of my life.”

“And the first best day?” Sam asked as she leafed through the letters, reading one plea for advice after another.

One letter in particular stood out. It was the perfect way to end things.

“The day I watch you lose everything.”

With those words ringing in her ears, and the letter’s content guilting her soul, Sam knew exactly what her final advice column would be.