by Levy, Marc
“Something wrong?” Maggie asked.
“Why do you stay with Fred when you spend all your time pecking away at him? What’s the point?”
“Pecking away. You know, sometimes, I ask myself where it is you get all these expressions from. Anyway, what’s the use in putting up with a man, if you can’t peck away at him from time to time?”
“If that’s how relationships go, maybe I should just stay single.”
“Ah, I wasn’t aware you had a choice in the matter.”
“Touché! Thanks—only a major bitch would say something like that.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. Anyway, on a more important note, we failed pretty miserably at getting anything out of Dad tonight, huh?”
“Well, at least we didn’t have to slave away in the kitchen. And we got some good laughs out of it. What do you think got into him tonight with the whole wedding thing? You think he’s already itching for grandkids?” I suggested.
Maggie stopped short and began to hum under her breath.
“Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a tiger by the toe. If he squeals, let him go, eenie meenie miney mo!” Maggie’s finger landed on me. “Sorry, sister. Looks like you’re stuck with it. Personally, I have zero desire to have kids.”
“With Fred or just in general?”
“At least we were able to answer the burning question of the night: Mum was as broke as ever when she got back together with Dad.”
“Maybe. But the whole night did raise a load of new questions,” I countered.
“No need to make a fuss, in any event. Mum gave Dad the push when they were young and then came back ten years later with her tail between her legs.”
“Seems to me the truth may be a bit more complicated than that.”
“Ah. Maybe you should give up traveling and devote yourself to sentimental investigative journalism.”
“Good lord, your sarcasm never fails to slay me. I’m talking about Mum and Dad here, about the over-the-top weirdness of the letter I received, all the shadowy parts of their histories. The lies they told us. You don’t have the slightest interest in learning more about your own parents? Or are you too busy thinking about yourself?”
“Well, touché right back at you, Elby. Only a real bitch would say something like that.”
“You know, we could also interpret Mum showing up penniless as actually corroborating the poison-pen’s story.”
“Sure. Because everyone who’s penniless must have walked away from some massive fortune.”
“Like you’d even know. You’ve never been penniless, thanks to our parents constantly coddling you.”
“Ah, poor Rigby. Should everybody join in, or you want to keep singing that same sad old song all by yourself? Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. Last out of the cradle, first in line for pampering, the whole family always bends over backwards just for her. You know, don’t forget who has the studio in London and who lives in the suburbs an hour away. Don’t forget who goes gallivanting across the globe and who stays behind to take care of Dad and Michel.”
“I don’t want to fight, Maggie. I just want your help in getting to the bottom of this. Whoever sent this letter did it with a purpose. Even if everything in it is completely baseless, there has to be some kind of motive behind all this. So: Who sent us the letter, and why?”
“Sent you the letter! Don’t forget, you weren’t even supposed to tell me about it to begin with.”
“Unless, maybe, just maybe, the poison-pen knows me well enough to know I’d tell you anyway. What if that’s just what he wanted?”
“Well, if that was the plan, he definitely went about it the right way. Look, enough beating around the bush. I can hear that little cry-for-help thing in your voice, so you win, I’ll help. First step: invite Dad out to lunch this week, somewhere near Chelsea. He may moan about having to go that far away, but he’ll say yes for the excuse to take the Austin out for a spin. Try to find a place with good parking, since there’s no way he’d risk leaving it on the street, which cracks me up every time, but hey, let’s focus on the task at hand. I have spare keys to his flat. As soon as the coast is clear, I’ll go in and have a look around.”
As queasy as the notion of tricking my father made me, I couldn’t think of a better idea, so I accepted my sister’s offer.
It was already late, and the station was empty, the two of us the only ones on the platform as we waited for the train. According to the departures board, a Southeastern train to Orpington was due shortly. I’d have to change at Bromley for a train to Victoria, then get the tube to South Kensington and walk another ten minutes to get home.
Maggie sighed. “You know what I’d like to do right now? Hop on that train with you. A proper sleepover at my sister’s place in London. Slip into bed with you and just chat the night away.”
“You know I’d love to, except . . . Fred will wonder where you are.”
The train roared into view at the end of the platform, brakes squealing as it came to a stop. The doors opened, but not a single passenger stepped out. When the long whistle sounded to announce departure was imminent, Maggie nudged me forward.
“Come on, Rigby! Move it or you’ll miss your train!”
After we exchanged a knowing glance, I boarded the train and disappeared into the night.
Fred was waiting for Maggie in bed, eyes glued to an old episode of Fawlty Towers. The lovers’ quarrel was no match for John Cleese, and the couple soon found themselves roaring with laughter at the endless antics of England’s reigning lord of the absurd.
“Okay, maybe you don’t want to get married, but what about moving into my place?” Fred asked.
“Ha! Come on, I’m the one who doesn’t want to get married? Don’t be a hypocrite. I saw your face when my dad said the M-word.”
“And I saw you wasted no time in setting the record straight.”
“Look, Michel and my dad are both right here. London’s just too far away for me to keep an eye on them.”
“Your brother is a grown man, and your father has led the life he wanted. Isn’t it time you started living yours to the fullest?”
Maggie grabbed the remote and shut off the TV. She straddled Fred and took off her T-shirt, looking him straight in the eye.
“What? Why are you giving me that look?” he asked.
“Because we’ve been together two whole years and it’s the first time I’ve realized that I know next to nothing about you—your life, your family. You’ve never introduced me, never talked about them at all. Meanwhile, you’re a leading expert on all things Maggie, the whole family . . . I don’t know where you grew up, where you went to college, if you went to college.”
“Right. Because you never asked.”
“That’s not true! You just always get dodgy and elusive when I ask about your past.”
“Well, here’s the thing,” he said, brushing his lips across her bare breasts. “Sometimes a man has other priorities. But if you insist, I’ll tell all . . . everything, my whole life story, in full detail . . . I was born thirty-nine years ago in London . . .”
Fred slipped lower as he spoke, making a trail of kisses down Maggie’s stomach.
“Okay, you win, I see your point,” Maggie murmured, her breath quickening. “Stop talking. Now.”
8
KEITH
October 1980, Baltimore
Shafts of moonlight streamed into the loft through the skylights, filled with little specks of floating dust. May slept soundly, the folds of the bedsheets hugging tightly to the curves of her body. Seated at the foot of the bed, Sally-Anne studied her and watched her breathe. At that very moment, the rising and falling of May’s chest was the only thing she cared about in the world. They could have been the last two people on earth, the whole of the universe contained within that loft.
One hour earlier, visions of the past had jolted Sally-Anne awake. Familiar faces glared down at her in judgment—frozen, expressionless, and unforgiving—while she sat, im
mobile, on an empty stage. So much of Sally-Anne’s character came from these judging faces, from a youth spent learning everything, without ever being taught.
Can two broken souls fix each other? Sally-Anne wondered. Would one person’s pain cancel out the other’s, or would it simply be piled on top of it?
“What time is it?” May groaned, her face buried in the pillow.
“Four in the morning, maybe a bit later.”
“What’s on your mind, what are you thinking about?”
“About us.”
“Good things or bad?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“You think I can sleep with you gawking at me like that?”
Sally-Anne slipped on her boots and grabbed her leather jacket off the back of a chair. May sighed.
“I don’t like it when you ride at night.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be nice and careful.”
“That’d be a first. Stay. I’ll make you a cup of tea,” May insisted. She rose and draped a sheet over her naked body, crossing their living space. The kitchen nook was little more than a sad-looking portable gas stove, a handful of mismatched plates and glasses, and two porcelain mugs on a wooden table near a tiny sink.
Holding the sheet with one hand, May struggled awkwardly to make the tea. She filled the kettle, stood on her tiptoes, fumbled for the tin box full of Lipton teabags, plucked two sugar cubes from a terra-cotta pot, and struck a match to light the gas stove. Sally-Anne didn’t lift a finger.
“Well, don’t come rushing in to help me!”
“I was waiting to see if you could manage with only one hand,” Sally-Anne replied, grinning playfully. May shrugged and let the sheet drop to the ground.
“Be a dear and put it back on the bed. I can’t stand dusty sheets.”
After pouring tea for them both, May came back to sit cross-legged on the mattress.
“We’ve received the invitations,” Sally-Anne revealed.
“When?”
“Yesterday. I stopped by the post office to have a look, and there they were.”
“And you didn’t think of telling me sooner?”
“We were having a good time, and I thought you’d spend the rest of the night thinking about it.”
“A good time? All these piss-poor political conversations are tedious at best and unbearable at worst. The guys we’ve been running with lately are a pain in the ass, going on and on about changing the world when all they do is get stoned. So, sorry to say, I wasn’t exactly having the night of my life to begin with. Can I see them?”
Sally-Anne reached into her jacket pocket and casually tossed the invitations onto the bed. May tore through one of the envelopes, noting, as she did, the surface of the elegant paper and admiring the embossed letters bearing her fake name. But then her eyes fell on the date of the party . . . only two weeks away. The women would be decked out in extravagant gowns and their finest jewelry. All the men would be wearing absurdly over-the-top costumes, aside from a handful of grumpy older guests in simple tuxedos and domino masks, refusing to play along.
“I’ve never been so excited about a masquerade ball in my entire life,” May snickered.
“My dear, you never cease to amaze me. I thought seeing the invitations would make you anxious.”
“Well, you thought wrong. That was the old me. Just setting foot in that house again changed everything. As we left the estate, I promised myself I was never going to let those people scare me again.”
“May . . .”
“You know what? Go out and wander the night, or come to bed with me . . . Just make up your mind. I’m tired.”
Sally-Anne picked up the dropped bedsheet and draped it over May. Then she quickly undressed and stretched out naked on the mattress next to her. She gazed at May with the same playful grin.
“What is it now?” asked May.
“Nothing. Just noticing how cute you are when you’re vindictive.”
May was silent for a moment. “I want to tell you something. It’s personal, I’m just speaking for myself here, but you should know. I’ll never let them take me alive.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You know exactly what it means. And life is too short to look back, or dwell on sadness or regret.”
“Hey, look me in the eye. You’re making a huge mistake here, May. If it’s just revenge you’re after, it gives them way too much power, too much importance. Think of it this way: we’re simply taking something from people who didn’t deserve it in the first place.”
Sally-Anne knew what she was talking about. She had known that crowd all her life, those who had everything handed to them from the cradle to the grave. Their high standing allowed them to help themselves to what others had to beg for, to find pleasure where others could only find hope. Some in those superior circles used disdain to elicit the envy and admiration of ordinary people. It was the epitome of cruel behavior—using rejection as a means of seduction, as a strategy to make one seem more desirable.
Sally-Anne had changed her whole life to distance herself from those people—where she lived, how she looked, right down to sacrificing her very long hair for a boyish pixie cut. At that time, she stopped obsessing over boys and started obsessing over noble causes. The country known as the “land of the free” had let slavery thrive and condoned years of segregation. Now, a full sixteen years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 had been passed, attitudes and mind-sets had scarcely budged. Women were now following the black community in the fight for equal rights, which would undoubtedly be a long and painstaking struggle. Sally-Anne and May had been exemplary soldiers on the front line, working at a daily newspaper. As researchers, they had already hit the glass ceiling for women in their field. Despite their positions and low pay-grade, the women would regularly write articles. Their arrogant male counterparts would then swoop in, sign off on the work as their own, and send it off to print.
May was the more talented journalist of the two, with a natural instinct for hunting down inflammatory subject matter. She never failed to push the privileged to their limits, striving to shake the earth beneath their feet. She relentlessly spoke out when powerful entities dragged along too slowly, delaying the implementation of promised reforms.
Earlier in the year, she had started digging into stories about influential lobbies that lined the pockets of senators in order to curb the passage of anti-corruption laws. She shone a light on anti-pollution laws that powerful companies were laughing off, thirsty for profit and ready to destroy the environment. May denounced arms deals that were prioritized over education for the poor. She spoke out against reforms that sought justice in name rather than in action. She had even launched an extraordinary investigation in her free time to expose a mining company that was shamelessly dumping toxic waste into a river, polluting the water source for an entire town. May traveled to the area herself and discovered that local leaders, including the board of directors of the company, the mayor, and even the governor, were well aware of the travesty and stood to profit from the situation. May managed to amass hard evidence on the facts and root causes of the pollution, and of its negative impact on public health. She had exposed hair-raising breaches of security and corruption running rampant through the upper levels of city and state governance. But when she submitted the article to her editor in chief, he ordered her to stick to the research assigned by her superiors. The man literally tossed May’s article into the trash, told her to get him a cup of coffee, and reminded her not to be stingy with the sugar.
May held back the tears and refused to give in. Sally-Anne consoled her. Revenge, she explained, was a dish best served lukewarm; contrary to popular belief, it is far less satisfying cold. That very night, toward the end of spring, a new project emerged out of nowhere, one that would come to change the course of their lives. The idea was born in the most unlikely of places: a cheap Italian restaurant, where they had gathered with their friends for dinner.
“We’re going
to start a newspaper, one with real investigative journalism at its core, with no censorship, that will print the whole truth, speak truth to power,” Sally-Anne declared, to no one in particular.
May, seeing the tepid reaction from their friends, stepped in without missing a beat. She clambered onto the table, more than a little tipsy, and suddenly had everyone’s undivided attention.
“The reporters on staff . . . will all be women,” she said, raising her glass. “Male employees will be limited to secondary roles, such as secretarial staff, switchboard, or archives.”
“Except that would be doing exactly what we’re trying to stop,” Sally-Anne countered. “Staff reporters should be hired solely on qualifications, with zero regard for gender, skin color, or religion.”
“Great idea.”
They began drawing up plans for their project right then and there, surrounded by their ragtag group of inebriated friends at the hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. First and foremost, the plan for the newsroom was drawn on a cocktail napkin. Rhonda, the oldest of the group and a junior accountant at Procter & Gamble (and rumored to have a history of attending Black Panther meetings), offered up her professional expertise. She began to sketch out the strategy for an operating account. She also drew up a list of posts to fill, the pay scale, and cost estimates for premises, overhead, supplies, and field expenses. She promised to calculate the cost of paper, printing, and shipping, and the margin that had to be allocated to distributors and dealers. In exchange for these services rendered, Rhonda was gunning for the title of CFO.
Their friend Keith shook his head and cut in. “Let’s assume that your project does somehow scrape together funding—which, mind you, is not at all a given—no one would ever print your rag, much less sell it. An investigative newspaper run by women?”
