by Dete Meserve
“Yes,” I answered and then turned to Jack. “I have to go, Jack.”
He nodded and stared straight ahead.
As I walked out of the room, I felt his eyes upon me, begging me to do the right thing.
I told David everything. As I spelled out the details of the true Good Sam story, he rubbed one ear and then the other, something I’d never seen him do before.
When I finished, his words cut into me like a knife. “We’re screwed—you, me, anyone who worked on the damn story. When Bonnie hears about this, she’ll have us out of here so fast our heads will spin.”
“Maybe there’s a way—”
“No.” The volume of his voice went up a notch. “This is the kind of mistake that brings news organizations down, that ruins reputations and kills careers. This isn’t going to fade away.”
“What if we—”
“Damn it.” He slammed his fist on his desk. “How the hell did you let Jack Hansen put this over on us?”
“Maybe we wanted to believe too much—not just us, but the viewers too,” I said quietly. “Every newscast we report on murders, assaults, shootings, robberies—the terrible things people do to each other. Maybe we were caught off guard when someone appeared to be doing something truly good for other people. When a dynamic man comes forward and admits he did it, we want to believe him, because believing convinces us that maybe there is good out there after all.”
David stared at me and stopped rubbing his ears.
“Don’t tell Bonnie yet,” I continued in a calm voice, even though my heart was slamming against my ribs. “Let me put together my story. Then we’ll let her decide.”
I felt lightheaded as I walked back to my desk. So much was riding on what I did in the next hours, and I felt pretty sure I’d pass out before I got to do any of it.
Shondra stopped me in the hallway. “You’ve got another visitor. Eric Hayes. I sent him to your desk.”
I smiled this time and rushed into the newsroom.
“Can’t stay long,” he whispered. “The truck is parked out front, and my team is waiting for me. But we just finished training on the LA River, and I was thinking about you.”
“Thinking about what you’re going to do the next time I fall into the river?”
“Missing you.”
His smile made my heart race. Then more sobering thoughts came to mind.
“There’s something I have to do today, Eric. Something you won’t like. I have to tell the real story about Good Sam. Viewers have to know the truth…but it means telling your story.”
The smile faded from his face. “I don’t want anyone to know who I am or why I did it.”
“Will you let me interview you?”
He looked at me with an expression of confusion and uncertainty. I knew what he was going to say, but it didn’t make it easier when the words came out of his mouth.
“No,” he said quietly. “I’d do just about anything for you, Kate. Anything. But not that.”
I was silent then, wishing I could run away from the newsroom and from this story and pretend I’d never heard of Good Sam. It was bad enough that my own career would go down in flames when I told the truth, but hurting Eric in the process was too high a price to pay.
Was the truth really so important?
I sat at my computer in the newsroom for several hours, trying to figure out what to say in the report I had promised David. Most of that time, I’d stared at the blank computer screen, the cursor blinking at me as if in warning. Would this be the last report I’d file for Channel Eleven—or for any television station? Would viewers think we had deceived them by wrongly putting forth Jack Hansen as Good Sam?
I finished my third cup of my coffee and crumpled the cup in my hands. The screen—my script—was blank. How could I tell the story without revealing Eric was Good Sam?
“Something’s definitely going on around here,” Alex said, startling me. He placed another cup of coffee on my desk and slid into the chair next to me. “Because David’s been behind closed doors with Bonnie all morning. And you haven’t said a word to anyone in two hours. During my entire internship, I don’t think I’ve seen you even sit down for more than fifteen minutes.”
I cracked my first smile of the day. “You’ve got great observation skills, Alex. You’re going to make a great reporter.”
He smiled. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”
“Definitely bad news.” I repeated, tapping my pen on my desk. But was it? What viewers loved about the Good Sam story was that an anonymous person was doing something generous and good. That hadn’t changed.
I leapt out of my chair and ran down the hallway to see if dispatch would assign Josh to be my news photographer. Luckily, he had just finished covering an ammonia spill at a cheese factory and was ready to go. I explained what had happened as we headed to Cristina Gomez’s house. Instead of shock or dismay or even anger, Josh broke into a huge smile.
“Remember the day when we first reported on Good Sam? We thought he was just giving randomly. But knowing that it wasn’t random—that the real Good Sam had chosen those people for a specific reason—is way more meaningful.”
I didn’t need a script or notes as I stood in front of Cristina Gomez’s house with its fresh coat of paint and newly repaired front porch and recorded the report.
“In the early-morning hours of a cold January day three weeks ago, a man placed a canvas bag containing one hundred thousand dollars in cash on this porch. He gave the money anonymously, leaving no clues regarding his identity. He repeated this gesture four more times, giving away more than five hundred thousand dollars in a few days’ time.
“We called this man ‘Good Sam.’ Intrigued by this selfless gesture, we and other media outlets around the country tried to find out who he was.
“When Jack Hansen came forward and admitted he was Good Sam, he gave me proof, but I didn’t examine it in minute detail. Accustomed to covering the police blotter of murders and accidents and shootings, I was caught off guard when dealing with someone who was doing so much good.
“But Jack Hansen isn’t Good Sam. Yes, he was generous—giving away a total of five hundred thousand dollars to five residents after the attention to Good Sam reached a fever pitch. He did this in order to launch a career in politics.
“Then who is the real Good Sam?
“Unlike Hansen, he isn’t a millionaire or a political candidate. He didn’t do it for the visibility, the attention, or the exposure. He did it as a silent tribute to the brother he lost in a tragic accident last year—to honor his brother’s dying wish to take care of the people he loved. He gave the money to the man who had been his brother’s best friend since fourth grade, to the tutor who had helped his brother with a reading problem in college, to the teacher who had encouraged his brother to start his own business, to the babysitter who had taken care of his brother’s sick child while he worked, and to the surgeon who had saved his brother’s life. These were the people who made his brother’s life richer, stronger, better. And he could think of no better way to honor his brother than to give to those who had made a difference in his brother’s life.
“Who is the real Good Sam who showed us the meaning of true generosity? If we tell you who he is, we will have defeated his efforts to give anonymously. So for now we’ll let the identity of the anonymous Good Sam remain just that—anonymous.”
Chapter Eighteen
On a moonlit night Eric and I glided over the open sea. The only sound was the creaking of the tall mast, the hush of the sails above our heads, and the burbling of the water against the hull. Stirred by our passage, small jellyfish and sea creatures twinkled and glowed in the dark waters below, creating the illusion that we were suspended in space.
I never expected to feel at home here with just a few inches of fiberglass between the deep blue sea and me. But we’d defeated the water once, Eric and I, and after a few more swimming lessons and sailing trips, I’d begun to make an uneasy peace with the
water. I’d grown accustomed to the sound of it lapping at the hull, the rhythmic sway of the boat on the open sea, the foamy wake behind us, and the salty taste of it on my lips. And I’d begun to appreciate the boat as a temporary island, a place where spirits are buoyed by the open air, the endless sky, and the possibilities that lie in the inky darkness ahead.
Eric came alive here, his body tuned to every nuance of the boat he’d made his own a few months ago. He’d named her Andromeda and seemed to anticipate her every need, letting her rest and almost hover on the water when the air died down and pushing her to the limits when the winds were right. I admired his ability to respond to the unseen—the winds, the air pressure, the lay of the water—whether we sailed through mist and spray and smudgy skies or puffy clouds and blue waters.
Six weeks had passed since Good Sam had captured the nation’s attention. Once the public knew the truth about what Jack did, he quickly withdrew his bid for Congress. The five people who had received money from Eric as a tribute to his brother gathered with him and Brian’s wife one night to remember the ways in which Brian had touched their lives. The evening had brought healing for Eric, but his grief and his guilt were far from over. We had talked for many hours about what had happened on the boat that fateful day in June, and I suspected that it would be a part of our lives for a long time to come.
As for me, I wasn’t fired from Channel Eleven. I’d played my report for Bonnie and David, and they were surprisingly supportive, scheduling it at the top of the six o’clock cast. David even went out on a limb to say, “Well done, Kate.” But the bigger battle lay ahead with the viewers. I had expected them to be outraged about being duped by Jack Hansen and angry with me for putting him forward as the real thing. Some were. But many couldn’t get enough of the story about the real Good Sam and his reasons for giving away the money. The story touched them in a way they hadn’t expected, reminded them that relationships and caring for others were more important than ambition and fame.
The social media channels lit up with theories about who Good Sam was. Some posited conspiracy theories, while others claimed various celebrities were behind the amazing story. A few people managed to guess correctly, but the obsession with Good Sam’s identity faded as people started focusing more on the copycat Good Sams popping up around the country.
A Good Sam had gone to work in Muncie, Indiana, leaving a thousand dollars in the mailboxes of five public school teachers. Another had surfaced in Stillwater, Minnesota, giving five thousand dollars to Clarence Whistler, who had mowed the lawn and wound the historic clock in the bell tower once a week for twenty-three years as a janitor at the county courthouse. Every day new stories rolled in. At one point, Alex had calculated that copycat Good Sams around the country had given away more than three million dollars in increments as small as one hundred dollars.
As I leaned against the railing at the bow of the boat, breathed in the cool, salty air, and watched the moon dance along the whitecaps, I wasn’t thinking about Jack Hansen, Good Sam, or anchoring the news. I was thinking how lucky I was to have found the man steering the boat tonight.
Over the years, I’d convinced myself that good rarely exists in this world, and if it does, it comes with ulterior motives and hidden agendas. But the truth is that good is everywhere. It’s harder to see, but often it’s right in front of you.
Or in this case, behind me. Eric wrapped his strong arms around my waist. He pointed at a group of stars above us. “Can you see Perseus holding the head of Medusa?”
I squinted, using every ounce of imagination to see the gorgon’s snake-filled head in the sprinkle of stars. “Maybe.”
“And do you see Andromeda to Perseus’s right?”
I saw her, still and bright in the night sky. “Yes.”
“Maybe you’re ready to start learning how to navigate the boat by the stars,” he said, squeezing me gently.
“Give me time,” I said, smiling. “I’ve got a task master for a swimming instructor who’s pushing me to learn the butterfly and the over-arm sidestroke. After I’ve mastered all that, perhaps I’ll be ready learn to navigate a boat by the stars.”
Eric was silent as he nuzzled my hair. “We’re like them, you know.”
“Like who?”
“Like Perseus and Andromeda. You were Andromeda being swallowed up the sea, and I was Perseus, flying down and slaying the sea monster to rescue you.”
I turned to look at him. “Except I wasn’t chained to a rock.”
He smiled and kissed me. “Always a stickler for the truth, aren’t you?”
I kissed him back. “What happened to Perseus and Andromeda after he rescued her?”
“Andromeda’s parents promised Perseus a kingdom as a dowry for marrying her.”
“Hmm. I don’t have a dowry. Or a kingdom. So I guess our story isn’t the same after all.”
“I’d take you without either,” he said quietly. My eyes met his in the soft light coming from the ship’s cabin. “If you’d have me.”
“Are you asking—”
He grinned. “Yes, for once I’m the one asking the questions.”
I kissed him then—a kiss that left me breathless in its depth and its meaning.
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