The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(105)
“You must be Dorothy,” the man said. “I’m so sorry for intruding…”
* * *
After Dorothy agreed to meet Carter Branson for dinner, he finally left. Then she found the email address for Sophia Blessing at Bitch Media. Dorothy sat down and began to type, each keystroke like a nudge, a change in vector, pushing the ship she was on toward a new course. She wrote:
Dear Ms. Blessing,
I heard that you’d like a face-to-face interview. If you’ll indulge me, I have something better.
As you well know, Carter Branson, through a holding company, is the majority owner of the company I work for. It’s my belief that the rumors about his malfeasance toward women, his unwanted advances, his sexual assaults, and his cover-ups, are all true.
He’s asked to meet me for dinner tonight. A car is scheduled to pick me up and whisk me away to a private meeting atop the Space Needle. If you can get here in time, I’d like you to go in my stead—to confront him about his misdeeds.
Also, after Syren’s initial public offering, Carter Branson will dump his shares in this company. He’s either shorted it himself, or through a third party. You’re excellent at what you do. I have no doubt that if you dig into Branson’s ownership of Syren you’ll find evidence of stock manipulation and insider trading.
I’m sure that right now you’re wondering why I’m doing this, sharing this with you, which in all likelihood will cost me my job and millions in stock options.
All I can say is that I created an app to help others find love, but as the poet Nikki Giovanni once said, Love is responsibility. A dear friend once said, Karma is action.
Here is my act.
Dorothy sent the email, then sat in her office, oblivious to the dozens of bouquets of flowers, helium balloons, edible arrangements of fruit and truffles, and bottles of champagne sent by her peers and competitors alike.
Within minutes she received a response from Sophia, who was as alarmed at Dorothy’s frankness as she was intrigued by the opportunity to put an end to the notorious behavior of an entitled, serial abuser.
Dorothy replied cordially and gratefully, with instructions on when and where the reporter was to be picked up and what to expect. She also strongly suggested that Sophia record her encounter with Branson, since all his misdeeds boiled down to situations where it was his word and his copious wealth against that of his accusers.
She smiled and imagined the look on Branson’s face when Sophia stepped off the elevator. Dorothy looked at her watch, a split second before it lit up with a message: Sam is here for you. He says he’s meeting you for lunch. Shall I send him back?
Dorothy’s heart raced as she pressed yes.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, he stood in her doorway.
“I’m Sam.” His introduction almost sounded like an apology. He looked in awe of the place, perhaps embarrassed. “Um, in case you’re wondering, no, I’ve… never done this before. I’m afraid my parents got a little carried away…”
Dorothy stood up and threw her arms about him. He felt so warm, the fragrance of his being so familiar, his touch strong but gentle. She didn’t want to let go.
“I’m so sorry,” Dorothy kept repeating as she held on to him. “I’m so sorry…”
“It’s okay. It’s all right. No worries. I’d say both of our parents are at fault,” Sam said as he held her. “They mean well. Yours, anyway. Mine—I think they’re just trying to save face with their nosy neighbors.”
She finally let go of the embrace but hung on to his arms as she looked up at him.
“Well, it’s so nice to finally meet you, too.” Sam smiled. “Suddenly I feel like I owe that matchmaker a nice tip or at least a thank-you note. I don’t normally make this kind of first impression. I was just happy you said yes to lunch under such strange…”
“Circumstances? What can I say, there’s something in the blood.”
Sam looked confused.
“Filial piety. It’s in our genes,” she said. “Among a lot of other things.”
“Indeed.” Sam nodded. He found her coat on a hook behind her door, offering to help her with the garment. And when he walked her down the stairs and past the reception desk, everyone’s heads turned to see who Dorothy was with. Sam held the door and she stepped outside. When she looked over her shoulder, he was standing in the doorway. He looked happier than she remembered.
“What?” she asked.
He smiled as he pointed with his chin. “Keep going.”
Dorothy hesitated, then turned, catching her balance, knees bent, arms outstretched as she stood perilously at the edge of the diving platform high above the new swimming pool at Summerhill. She looked down at her teacher, Mrs. Bidwell, who kept playing her violin. Dorothy surveyed the school grounds as the song reached its crescendo. Then she looked up at the pillowy clouds that adorned the August sky, drew a deep breath, pinched her nose, and jumped. She plunged into the cool water and felt as though she were being shocked awake. She opened her eyes, staring through the aqueous lens, appreciating the rays of light that illuminated the churning legs of the boys and girls above her in the middle of the pool. Dorothy heard a muffled tone as she pushed off from the bottom. When she surfaced she realized the sound was the sharp, clamorous ringing of the school bell. She climbed out of the pool and toweled off as her classmates were getting dressed, though a few ignored the bell and continued playing.