“Do you have a death wish or something?” a woman in a mandarin leisure suit asked, drawing all eyes and ears on Sam, their designated leader. “You can’t be too careful on these crazy streets.”
But Sam already knew this from the years she had lived in Brooklyn as a fresh-faced naïve careerwoman—minus the career. At least a real career had been within reach, she consoled herself. On the same day she had been offered a promotion to the coveted columnist position at the prestigious Ladies Home Journal, a rare weekday long-distance call rang through her tiny apartment. The three-minute and $12 call from her sobbing mother was just expensive enough to use up an entire day’s wage, and long enough to wreck Sam’s world.
“Your father needs you,” was what her mother had opened with when Sam had answered the phone. “The medicines and treatments aren’t working. Your father’s heart is barely hanging on by a thread.”
So Sam, the ever-dutiful daughter, turned the columnist promotion down, left New York, and headed home to Pittsburgh to care for her ill-fated father and soon-to-be-widowed mother. Mere months later, when her father’s heart gave up anyway, she was burdened with the shame of failure and bills they couldn’t afford.
Even after regaining her footing as a typist for Women’s House Magazine, with an unprecedented 140 words per minute, undoubtably the skill that secured her the job, Sam’s meager salary was no match for survival in this world. But money—or lack thereof—didn’t stop her from filling up her gas tank at $0.36 a gallon and driving across Pennsylvania to New York with a resolve to right old wrongs.
And finally take down her father’s killer.
“Are we ready, ladies?” a gorgeous gal in argyle called out.
“Remember, do not give in, no matter the cost,” another said, her sleek and severe middle-part catching the tail wind of a passing truck.
The cost—that was the lingering detail that gave Sam a slight hesitancy. They would certainly be breaking a law—or two or three—today. The cost could end up ripping mothers from their children, wives from their husbands, businesswomen from their only source of income.
“This is no small sacrifice,” Sam reminded them.
Not that Sam wasn’t familiar with sacrifice. She had given up the only guy she ever loved—regretfully. Then gave up her dream columnist job to help her sick father—willingly. She turned down a college scholarship to support her mother—selflessly. She spent her evenings alone studying plants that could heal others—happily. But to petition all these women to risk their own comforts for a greater cause… this was asking a lot. And every cell in Sam’s body resisted the urge to ask for anything.
“We’re ready for it!” Argyle Gal urged. “Any wise words to inspire us before we make history, Sam?”
Sam thought a moment, tapping her chewed fingernail on her chin. The cool sensation of the gold heart necklace skimming her collarbone gave her the words she needed to say:
“I’m proud of you all for showing up this morning and risking so much. Each of you is braver than you realize! And it won’t be in vain. As we know, choosing silence is choosing our own downfall. As long as we padlock our tongues, all women will continue to wear chains. So here’s to making some noise, ladies!”
A collective cheer boosted morale as the women surged ahead. A chorus of “You’re our hero, Sam!” and “Lead us to victory, Sam!” filled the street.
While they had become Sam’s comrades of a sort, there remained a chasm that she couldn’t quite cross over into genuine friendship. Not one of them invited her to a Friday game night. Or to a Saturday night of disco. Or even to a Tupperware party. Not that Sam would have gone anyway. It could have been due to her lack of interest in typical feminine things, like the latest hairdos, makeup, or fashion trends. But she sensed it was something deeper. Something about her that didn’t quite vibe with other women her age and status.
Her mother had plenty of opinions on why—her strange passion for plants, her apathy toward appearance, her indifference to dating—but Sam worried it was something off-putting that a coat of foundation and a man on her arm couldn’t fix. But there was one person whose vibe matched Sam’s perfectly. It had been friendship at first sight.
She eagerly searched the pool of faces for his in particular. She had been certain he would come—she had given him plenty of notice—but his infectious energy was missing and his goosebump-inducing smile nowhere to be found.
When her gaze settled on a lone figure, her fury surfaced. Hanging along the outskirts of the throng was a sole cameraman and local news reporter from a no-name network Sam didn’t recognize. Was that it? Where was Eyewitness News? Or Report to New York? Her rebellion—and all that was at stake—wasn’t even important enough to draw the attention of any major news outlet?!
No matter. Once they accomplished what they set out to do, ABC and NBC—and all the letters in between—would be chomping for interviews like a shoal of piranhas.
“Check out that stone fox,” the cameraman muttered to the reporter with a hungry gaze. He twirled the tip of his thin mustache around his finger with a lewdness that grossed Sam out.
Sam already knew he wasn’t referring to her, for no one could mistake her homely features and outdated haircut as foxy. But the sexism so effortlessly slipping off his tongue still irritated her like a nasty rash.
“The things I would do to her…” he added with a groan.
“Oh, sit on it!” Sam turned on him. “You think you’re a real Casanova, don’t you? Pigheaded men like you are the reason we’re here.”
The cameraman laughed her off, which maddened her all the more. “Stop trippin’, lady, and take a chill pill. I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to that chick in argyle. You’re just jealous no one’s checkin’ you out.”
Sam scoffed.
“And you’re lucky anyone showed up to your silly little ra-ra rally,” he continued, waving his arm at the empty sidewalk behind him as a cruel smirk lifted his lips. “The real news is over in Vietnam. Or covering the Manson murders. As you can see, no one cares about your man-hating cause.”
“Man-hating? I’ll show you man-hating!” The words flung out as quickly as her hand, followed by the slap of her palm on his cheek.
The cameraman’s eyes widened with shock. His face reddened with embarrassment to match the handprint. Sam’s shoulders straightened with satisfaction. Then she turned on her wedge heels and led the charge.
A more conventional woman would have known her place and sheepishly apologized. But Sam wasn’t a conventional woman. And there wasn’t a sheepish bone in her body. In fact, there was not a single conventional woman among the group that now migrated through the glass front doors of the Ladies Home Journal office building, with Sam forging the way to one of two outcomes:
Their prize, or their demise.
As it seemed to happen to generations of Stantons before her, the two most often ended up colliding, becoming one and the same. The higher Sam rose, the harder she would fall.
Chapter 3
