So he sought out his next-best journalists. One reluctantly conceded that Sam had a completely unique approach to health that he knew nothing about. Another overachiever assured Mel he could reproduce something as good—if not better—by the end of the week. Make that the end of the day! But when he turned over a column advising the advice-seeker that the best cure for suicidal thoughts was to stash them away, dab on some makeup, and get busy in the kitchen, Mel realized he was in the presence of a misogynistic idiot. Publishing was rife with them. And the new hire sitting in front of him now? He couldn’t even spell advis colum. But Mel was determined to get rid of Sam no matter what.
“I’m confused. Our magazine is shutting down and you’re firing me, but you hired a new guy? Why? On what grounds am I being fired?”
“I think you know.”
“Enlighten me,” she said, leaning forward, her hands clasped together in a tight mass. She wasn’t sure from where her composure came, but she was determined to keep it.
Standing next to his desk was Betty Number Five, who was busy taking notes. And probably including details in case a police report was needed for Mel’s imminent murder by Sam’s hand.
“You stole Thomas Cook’s ledger,” Mel said. “I can’t keep a thief on staff.”
“Those charges were dropped. So according to the justice system, I am innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“Innocent of wrongdoing?” he choked. “That’s bold coming from the woman who attacked the reputation of the owner of our magazine!”
“I never attacked Thomas Cook. I simply pointed out a curious accounting phenomenon in his ledger. What does that have to do with my work?” She folded and unfolded her hands, keeping them busy lest she reach for the letter opener on Mel’s desk and stab him with it.
“You have a lot of nerve even showing up here after the stunt you pulled. You know very well women know nothing about accounting, and to run with that story… what you did was disgraceful.”
“Women are actually quite good with numbers. Is your wife in charge of the checkbook?”
“What’s that have to do with anything?”
“You just claimed women know nothing about accounting, but you must trust your wife enough to manage the checkbook, don’t you?”
“How dare you,” he said, his voice rising. “A woman telling me how to run my household. Who do you think you are?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “A woman who knows basic accounting.”
“Miss Stanton,” Betty Number Five stated, her hand tiring from these silly notes on this round-and-round conversation that was going nowhere, “we can’t keep you on after everything you did with Thomas Cook—”
“Which was nothing—”
“And certainly you should feel ashamed to even be in public right now after all that scandal—”
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“Some time off might be exactly what you need. So I suggest you quit fighting it, sign your termination agreement, and clean out your desk.”
But Sam didn’t flinch. “Because of something I didn’t do? What about Thomas Cook?”
“What about him? He owns you, Samantha. He’s untouchable. As most men are. Haven’t you learned that yet?” Mel asked.
Sam looked at the termination agreement and picked up the pen, hovering the tip over the signature line. She found it ironic that when it came to her pay raise, it required her nonexistent husband’s signature, but when it came to getting fired, hers would suffice.
Ding dong, Mel cheered silently as Sam pressed the pen tip to the paper. The queen is dead!
Then Sam grabbed the paper, tore it in half, and stormed out of the office.
Women’s House Magazine
March 1972 Issue
Samantha Says…
Q:Dear Samantha,
Your column has inspired me in so many ways, from my mental health, to my physical health, and even in my family life. Last year I reconnected with a long-lost family member after reading your column about the toxicity of unforgiveness and bitterness. After thinking over your advice, I chose to forgive him and it was like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.
