The Last of the Stanfields(15)
“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.”