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.
Women’s House Magazine
May 1972 Issue
Samantha Says…
Q:Dear Samantha,
You may remember me as the reader who sought your advice about my temperamental husband. To refresh your memory, if supper didn’t appeal to him, he would blend it and force me to drink it so I might aspire to be a better cook.
Back then you advised me to offer him nux vomica seeds—also known as the “poison nut,” treated by soaking and boiling them in milk to remove the toxic poison. Your sage advice did indeed cure his irritability and quell his anger. Unfortunately it didn’t cure mine until the tragic day I had forgotten to pre-treat the seeds before sprinkling them on his slice of Watergate cake. Needless to say, the funeral was beautiful.
Today I come to you again seeking advice after hearing the terrible news about your fate. More than that, you had filled me, and countless others, with a hope for something apparently unreachable. Freedom. Self-worth. Equality.
Perhaps that is the hardest pill to swallow—nothing will change, and the more we fight for it, the more we bleed. This reality has resulted in my depression and an accompanying prescription for Tofranil, which only adds to the weight I carry—literally. Gaining four sizes and plagued with vertigo have done little to boost my spirits.
So my final enquiry before your column closes for good: What is the cure to all that ails me?
Sincerely,
Supper Sipper Sally
A: Dear Supper Sipper Sally,
