“Do you post about them online?” she asked. “Like on Facebook or something?”
The men stared back. None of them were on Facebook.
“I could make a page,” Sam said. “And then local people and businesses could share it on their pages.”
“Lindy, you got a Facebook page?” Herbert yelled, startling Sam.
“Of course I do!” came a voice from the back.
They talked for two hours. Some of it was interesting, though Sam faded out for long stretches, only tuning back in when one of them raised his voice to make a point.
At the end, as everyone was putting on their coats, Jim asked if she would come again next week. Sam said yes, even as she mentally listed better ways to use the time: studying, napping, hanging out with her friends.
“We’re having a guest speaker,” Jim said. “To warn you, it might get kind of intense.”
Over the course of the next week, Sam wondered who the speaker would be. She asked Elisabeth if she knew. Elisabeth said she had no idea what went on at George’s meetings.
George picked Sam up again the following Sunday. She liked their time in the car together. In some strange way, he reminded her of home. He drove the twenty minutes to get her and take her to Lindy’s, three blocks from where he started. George would drive her back too. It was a lot of extra time in the car, but he said he didn’t mind.
“Faye’s not used to having me home so much,” he said. “It’s good for her to have the run of the house for a bit.”
The guest speaker turned out to be a well-dressed woman in a pantsuit, with a patterned scarf around her neck and a neatly cropped bob. She spoke calmly, assertively about the problem of drug use in their community and the fact that public officials weren’t doing enough to help. Sam listened, riveted, as the woman described how pharmaceutical companies had gotten rich off prescribing the meds that led to opioid addiction, which had stolen so many young lives.
Sam was not expecting what came next. The woman passed around a photograph of a smiling, pretty blonde blowing out the candles on a cake.
“My daughter Julia,” she said. “That was her last birthday. She was thirty-one.”
She went on to talk about her daughter—who rode horses and rescued dogs and loved country music. How she got addicted to pain pills after a car accident. How the accident didn’t kill her, but the pills did.
When the woman was done talking, Sam surprised herself by being the first to respond.
“My uncle Pete, my mom’s youngest brother, got hooked on OxyContin a few years ago,” she said. “He took it for back pain, but then he just couldn’t get off it. He’s such a good guy. The last person you’d suspect of being an addict. He has three kids.”
It was the sort of thing her parents would say not to tell anyone outside the family, but Sam felt safe here. She thought of what George had told her about blaming the individual when, really, the blame lay with some larger entity.
“It can happen to anyone,” the woman said, nodding.
“I’m so sorry about your daughter,” Sam said.
George nodded like a proud parent.
“We’ll be demonstrating outside the city council hearing for increased funding next week,” Jim said. “We should each pledge to recruit one or two people to come. Sam, could you post about it online, like you said?”
She told him she would.
She added the event to the Facebook pages of all the surrounding towns. She asked the student paper to put it on their website on the Local Listings page. The more asks she made, the more she wanted to impress the old guys by bringing out as many people as possible. She printed up actual flyers and hung them on trees and in classrooms, on the bulletin boards at College Hall and the post office. She sent emails requesting the help of the Feminist Alliance, the Campus Democrats, and the Dial Tones, the school’s second most popular a cappella group.
Sam wondered if any of them would come. She didn’t want to disappoint George.
Students at the college were always staging walkouts and protests.
Arriving to Martin Hall for her British poetry class one Tuesday, Sam found dozens of people streaming from the building.
“Is it a fire drill?” she asked one of them.
“No,” the girl said. “It’s a walkout.”
“A walkout for what?” Sam asked.
The girl shrugged. “I have no idea.”
A former secretary of state had given the commencement address last year. Half the graduating students stood up and turned their backs when she took the stage. Sam had never been certain why, exactly.
In the past three months, Sam had marched alongside her fellow students three times—twice when young black men were killed by police officers in faraway states, and once to demand global action against climate change.
But off-campus protests were another matter. Students from the college rarely intermingled with the people who lived in the surrounding area.
On their way to the demonstration, Sam said, “I haven’t gotten as big a response as I’d hoped.”
“That’s all right,” George said. “You tried, that’s the important thing. Our group is lucky to have you.”
In the end, twenty-three people, eleven of them students from the college, arrived at City Hall. One of the students was Isabella, who had come only because Sam promised they’d go for beers at the local dive bar after, but even so, she found it inspiring. Those eleven students had traveled twenty miles to be there. They had come because of her.
The mother of the young woman who died was there, with the familiar photograph printed on her T-shirt—in the picture, the light of the birthday candles against her daughter’s cheeks made her look like an angel.
Three members of the Dial Tones sang Joan Baez.
Lindy brought bagels.
George seemed happy. He said it was a good showing. Sam wondered if it bothered him that Faye wasn’t there.
Andrew stopped by for a short while on his way home from work, but said he needed to get back to help Elisabeth.
“She wanted to be here, but—the baby,” he said.
Sam recalled Elisabeth saying once, “Having a baby is the greatest excuse in the world for bowing out of things you don’t want to do.”
She watched Andrew walk to his car.
Diego tapped Sam on the shoulder then and said, “This is the reporter I told you about. Benjamin Ross. Sam is the youngest member of our group.”
Sam smiled as she turned toward him.
Benjamin Ross was almost handsome. Black, wavy hair; olive skin; a black leather jacket. He had all the components, but there was something off. Maybe it was the smirk on his face, the know-it-all look he gave her before he’d even said a word.
“I hear you’re responsible for this great turnout,” he said.
Sam couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.
“How did you end up in the discussion group?” he said. He smiled now.
“I babysit for George Riley’s grandson.”
“Right,” he said. “Those guys are a trip. They have a new story idea for me every week. Whether I like it or not.”
Sam wondered how old he was. Not much older than her—Diego had said he graduated two years ago. He had the confidence of someone much older.
Benjamin asked what she was studying, and where. He asked where she was from. But he didn’t seem to care about any of the answers. He kept looking past her, as if waiting for someone better to come along.
Sam didn’t like him, and yet she had never been so attracted to anybody, not since meeting Clive. Was that even possible, to be attracted to someone you sensed was loathsome? She saw Isabella, talking to Jim and Herbert. Sam wished she could consult her.
Benjamin asked what she was doing after graduation, but only as a means of telling her t
hat he was in the process of applying to grad school. Hoping for Northwestern.
He was, at least on paper, the kind of person everyone in her life would have loved to see her with. The right age, the right job, the correct amount of ambition. It would all be so simple. Sam imagined herself telling relatives at Christmas, I’m applying for jobs in Chicago right now. We’ll be there while Ben gets his master’s.
A moment later, the real Benjamin said, “Well, nice to meet you,” and walked off, toward a fast-moving guy in a suit.
* * *
—
The demonstration was a success. The city council voted in their favor.
Afterward, George’s discussion group took Sam and Isabella for a steak dinner to celebrate. The restaurant was dark, with blood-red walls and high-backed leather chairs. The place exuded masculinity in a way nothing in Sam’s daily life did.
It was there, sitting next to George, feeling energized and inspired, that she brought up her friends in the dining hall and told him about all they’d had to deal with since that terrible man, Barney Reardon, took over as their boss.
“They are the best people in the world. You’d love them,” Sam said. “They’re like us. I want to do something to help. It dawned on me today that students at the college are always protesting awful things that are happening at a distance. But we could take action to change the lives of women we see every day. Why wouldn’t we do that?”
“I like your thinking,” George said. “You should talk to them about the most effective ways for you to advocate on their behalf. I’m sure having a student faction on their side would be useful. You can demand things that maybe they can’t.”
“I bet President Washington has no clue what’s been happening to them,” Sam said.
“President Washington?”
“The president of the college. She grew up in public housing. She’s all about equality and diversity and empowering women on campus. That shouldn’t only apply to the students, right? We could stage a teach-in outside her office. Or maybe get people to sign a petition.”
“Sure,” George said.
Sam had committed President Washington’s famous speech to memory. She ran lines from it in her head, as if saying a prayer.
If women ran the world, no child would be hungry.
If women ran the world, we would listen when others speak, aware that the solution usually comes by doing just that.
If women ran the world, we would shine a light on the truth, as hard as it may sometimes be to bear it.
Sam had a vision—President Washington offering Gaby a full scholarship, Gaby giving a speech at her graduation, thanking Sam for putting it all in motion.
She had never had a conversation with President Washington, and yet Sam felt like she knew her. Passing by her red-brick mansion in the middle of campus gave Sam a peaceful feeling, like a grown-up was present, watching over them all.
* * *
—
At breakfast the next morning, still in pajamas, Sam told Gaby about the protest, and about her idea.
Gaby wore her apron over jeans. She was in the process of refilling pitchers of juice.
“I am absolutely positive President Washington would be on your side,” Sam said.
“Why? She works for the company, not us,” Gaby said.
“What company?” Sam said.
“The college.”
Sam had never thought of the place in that way.
“I know this could make a difference,” she said. “Trust me. We can’t let some guy come in and treat women this way and get away with it. Barney Reardon needs to be held accountable.”
“You’re crazy,” Gaby said, but with a smile that put Sam at ease.
Gaby had acted cool toward her since Josie’s birthday. She told Maria Sam had missed the party because she was sick. When Sam thanked her for doing so, Gaby said, “I did it to spare my aunt’s feelings, not yours.”
Sam had tried to make up for it. She bought the baby a nice present—a pink-and-purple tent that folded up to almost nothing. She invited Gaby out for lunch so they could finally catch up. They laughed their way through the meal, Gaby telling Sam about a disastrous date she’d been on with a guy she met at her restaurant job; Sam telling Gaby about how she had started hanging out with a bunch of old men.
She thought now that Gaby had forgiven her, and it was a relief. Sam couldn’t bear for anyone to be mad at her, especially someone like Gaby, who wouldn’t hide her anger or pretend things were fine, the way most women did.
A student approached the buffet, groggy eyed. She poured orange juice from a pitcher Gaby had just filled into one of the short glasses that reminded Sam of summer camp. The girl held the pitcher in one hand, the glass in the other.
Sam knew the exact weight of that pitcher when it was full. She almost said something, but before she could, the girl had lost control, the pitcher twisting her wrist so that the glass overflowed.
“Dammit,” Gaby said under her breath.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl said.
She fumbled around, then grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins from the buffet and started dropping them over the mess. Each small square dissolved into the puddle.
“No, not like that,” Gaby said. “Just—leave it.”
She took a rag from her pocket and began sopping up the juice.
The girl walked off toward a table of others, her face gone red.
“Oh my God, could someone please teach these girls some common sense? I swear every last one admitted to this school is an imbecile,” Gaby said.
It was the sort of thing they might have remarked to one another a year ago in the course of working a shift together, but something in her tone seemed meaner than usual. Every last one. Sam wondered if Gaby was still mad about her missing the party. She wanted to ask, but instead pretended to laugh. Then they were laughing together, and that felt good, even if the reason for their laughter was unkind.
“So will you float my idea about talking to President Washington to Maria?” Sam said. “If she says yes, I’m sure Delmi will agree. And then Delmi can convince all her friends to get on board.”
Gaby rolled her eyes. “Maria would never agree to something like that.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She’s resigned to the way things are, I guess. She’d say you don’t make demands when you know you’re replaceable,” Gaby said. “That’s just how it is.”
Sam didn’t agree. Gaby was assuming the worst, as usual.
“I can see those wheels turning in your head, Sam,” Gaby said. “Consider that Maria’s first cousin works at a dairy where his job is to inseminate cows. Compared to that, this place is paradise.”
Sam grimaced.
“Hey. I’m done tonight at seven if you want to grab a beer,” Gaby said.
“I wish I could, but I talk to Clive at seven every weeknight now. It’s like a ritual. Any later, and he’s basically a zombie the next day.”
Gaby turned prickly. “Got it.”
“I know,” Sam said. “I’m sorry.”
She had seen the same expression from Isabella, from Lexi, from Shannon. None of them understood why she would sacrifice a night with friends for a phone chat with her long-distance boyfriend. Clive, meanwhile, pouted on the rare occasion when she wasn’t there to answer his call, or when he proposed a date for a visit that overlapped with exams or a weekend when Sam had other plans. It seemed like no matter what she did, someone felt neglected. Sam was expected to be two places at once, to split herself in half.
There were also Sunday dinners at Elisabeth’s, and discussion group with George, which her friends understood even less. Last year, Sam had spent so many nights and weekends alone, looking for something to do. This year, she needed more hours in the day. It seemed that life was always
like that. Too much to do, or not enough, but never the perfect amount.
Other places where she ought to have been, she simply wasn’t. She hadn’t called her grandparents in weeks, even though her mother said, “They’d love to hear from you,” every time they talked.
“Tomorrow I’m off at four and I have an hour before I have to leave for the restaurant,” Gaby said.
“Ugh, I’m supposed to do something with Isabella,” Sam said. “Sorry. We’re like ships passing in the night lately.”
“It’s fine,” Gaby said. “I won’t bother to ask again. Since you’re the one with the crazy schedule, why don’t you tell me when you have some free time.”
Sam tried to push away the guilt this brought on in her.
“I will,” she said. “Soon.”
* * *
—
At dinner on Sunday night, Elisabeth didn’t ask about the demonstration.
They talked about other things. The death of Mike Nichols; how much they had all loved The Graduate.
Andrew had made an apple tart for dessert. As he sliced it, Sam started talking about Gaby.
“My friend I met working my old campus job,” she said. “She has a two-year-old daughter.”
“She’s a student at the college and she has a two-year-old?” Elisabeth said.
“No, no, she just works there.”
Sam told them all the things she’d told George about the women in the dining hall, and how she was trying to think up ways to help them.
“You have a heart of gold, Sam,” Elisabeth said.
“You know what their situation makes me think of, right?” Sam said.
“What?”
“The Hollow Tree! It’s a perfect example.”
“Oh my God,” Elisabeth said. “George has really gotten to you.”
“My dad says it was thanks to you that they had such a crowd at City Hall,” Andrew said. “He thinks we should clone you.”
“Yes, because she humors his rantings about the end of the world as we know it,” Elisabeth said. “Please know that you don’t have to do that for our sake, Sam. Babysitting George isn’t part of your job description.”
Friends and Strangers Page 22