Sweet Forgiveness (15 page)

The wide, wood-planked porch of the Columns is only slightly less populated than the parlor, yet somehow I feel safer out here beneath the dim glow of gaslights, less exposed. We stand at the porch's wooden railing. I gaze out at the pretty lawn and St. Charles Avenue beyond.

I swallow hard and turn to him. “That accusation I made against my mother's boyfriend, back when I was thirteen? I think I may have jumped to conclusions . . . the wrong conclusions.”

“Whoa!” Michael holds up a hand. “Stop.” His eyes dart around the porch, as if checking to make sure nobody heard. “Please. I don't need to know this.”

“But you do.”

“No, I don't.” He steps closer to me, his voice just above a whisper. “And neither does anyone else. You can't seriously be thinking of exposing this tale, Hannah.”

I turn away as if I've been slapped, grateful for the cover of evening sky. He thinks I'm a monster and that everyone, if they knew what I'd done, would think so, too. My gaze lingers on a young couple scampering up the sidewalk. The woman giggles into the ear of a stocky gentleman and has an air about her I can only describe as carefree. I feel a pang of envy. What must it feel like to be completely open and honest with someone, maybe even yourself? To live without that niggling doubt that you've made a grave mistake?

“I'm not sure what I did was wrong,” I say. “I'm not sure of anything, anymore. I want your opinion, or at least your support. Dorothy seems to think I must make peace.”

I close my eyes and feel Michael's hand on my back. “You're being naïve, sweetheart.” He wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him so that his chin rests on my head. “You might gain that relationship with your mother, but if word were to get out, you'd lose your entire viewing audience. People love nothing more than to see a celebrity fall from grace.”

I turn to him, his gentle voice incongruent with his hardened face.

“This isn't just about you now, Hannah. Think about it.”

My head snaps back. I don't have to think about it. I know what he's saying. We'd both be ruined if something scandalous leaked about me. I rub my arms, suddenly chilled.

“You need to stop second-guessing your decision. It's over and done with. This ugly family secret needs to remain buried, don't you agree?”

“Yes. No. I—I don't know!” I want to scream, defend myself, and make him listen. But the look in his eyes is a warning, not a question. And if I were to be totally honest, I'd admit that there's a small cowardly place in me that feels relief. I won't have to dredge up the past.

“Yes,” I say, but shaking my head. “I agree.”

S
ome people hide their shame like a scar, terrified others will be horrified if it's exposed. Others, like Marilyn Armstrong, display their shame like a warning flag, announcing to people what they're in for, should they choose to proceed with the relationship. Like most southerners, Marilyn is a storyteller, and hers is a cautionary tale, a nonfiction exposé. It's a sliver of her life she calls her bump in the road. But I'm quite sure she's never gotten over the bump. I've heard her tell it many times, and she claims it's cathartic. But I have another theory.

I met Marilyn Armstrong a week after I met Dorothy. We three sat in the Little Room at Commander's Palace, eating turtle soup and drinking their signature twenty-five-cent martinis.

“I can't believe these are twenty-five cents,” I said, fishing my olive from the glass. “I've lived in New Orleans for six months now. How could nobody have told me?”

“Used to be you could drink as many as you'd like. They've put a two-drink limit on them now. Probably because of us, Dottie!”

The two women laughed, the easy chuckle of childhood friends. Both New Orleans natives, the ladies shared more than a past. They shared a present, and a future. Dorothy stood bedside when Marilyn's husband died. Marilyn is godmother to Dorothy's only son, Jack.

Marilyn was a senior in high school back in 1957 when she met Gus Ryder, a twenty-year-old gas station attendant from Slidell. She was smitten by the older gentleman, so different from the boys she'd grown up with. Marilyn's father, a detective for the NOPD, sensed trouble. He forbade Marilyn from seeing Gus. But Marilyn was strong-willed. What her father didn't know wouldn't kill him. When she reaches this part of the story, she shakes her head at the irony.

Her dad was never around, except in the wee hours of the morning. He'd be none the wiser. And her mother, a fragile woman overwhelmed by five children, was a mere shadow in Marilyn's world.

And so it was that both parents were oblivious to Marilyn's daily rendezvous with her boyfriend, Gus. Each day she'd skip out at lunch and the two would spend the next forty minutes in the school parking lot, making out in the backseat of Gus's Chevy.

But lies leave bread crumbs of bad karma. Three months later, while sharing a Coke at K&B's soda fountain, Marilyn confided her worst fear to her best friend Dorothy. Gus had gone too far one day. She was six weeks late for her period.

“I'm a fool, I know. He didn't have a condom, and I didn't stop him.”

Dorothy listened, horrified. Marilyn's world would change forever if she were to have a child now. Despite the low expectations for women in the 1950s, she and Mari had dreams. They were going to travel and go to college and become famous writers or scientists.

“Gus is furious. He wants me to . . .” She put a hand over her face. “He knows a doc who could help us—” Marilyn broke down, and Dorothy grabbed her in a hug.

“Slow down. You don't even know if you're pregnant. Let's take this one step at a time.”

But the bad news was confirmed a few days later. Marilyn was pregnant, just as she suspected.

Telling her parents would be the hardest part. She was terrified that it might just be too much for her mother to handle. Lately, her mom had taken to long bouts of sleep in the afternoons, and sometimes she didn't come out of her room all day.

That afternoon, Marilyn's father picked her up after cheerleading practice. She sat in the passenger seat of his old green pickup truck, fidgeting with her class ring. She had to tell her daddy. He was the rock in her world. He'd know what to do.

“Daddy, I need your help.”

“What is it?”

“I'm pregnant.”

Her father turned to her, a sharp crease in his brow. “Come again?”

“I'm . . . Gus and I are having a baby.”

What happened next was completely unexpected. Her father, the stern man who gave orders and offered solutions, shattered. His lip trembled, and he couldn't speak.

“It's okay, Daddy,” Marilyn said, reaching a tentative hand to her father's arm. “Don't cry.”

He pulled over to a curb and cut the ignition. He stared out the driver's-side window with his hand to his mouth. Every now and again he swabbed his eyes with his hankie. She would have done anything—said anything—to give him peace.

“Gus and I have a plan. He's got a connection. We'll take care of it. Nobody needs to know.”

That night, somewhere between two and four a.m., Marilyn's father suffered a massive heart attack. The ambulance was called, but Marilyn knew it was for naught. Her father was already dead. And it was all her fault.

It was an ugly, heartbreaking memory, but Marilyn never hesitated to tell it. She claimed that by sharing her story, she might prevent other young girls from making the same mistake. “I've got three daughters,” she said. “If my story doesn't promote birth control, I don't know what will.”

But I've often wondered if Marilyn's open secret might be a lesson to herself, as well, a self-inflicted penance. By reliving her shameful story enough times to enough people, she's hoping to be forgiven. The question is, will she ever be able to forgive herself?

I sit behind my desk eating an apple, skimming Fiona Knowles's book,
The Forgiveness Stones.
In one week from today, she'll appear on the show—which means we're only six days away from Dorothy and Marilyn's appearance. A dull throb kicks at my temples.

I know better than to ignore my instincts, and every instinct I possess is firing at the same time:
Do not allow Dorothy to apologize on live TV.
I should cancel. This scheme is too risky. But the devil perched on my shoulder is telling me that Dorothy and Marilyn will be terrific guests. They're both natural storytellers, and the women's lifelong friendship, Marilyn's story of shame, and Dorothy's hidden secret create a talk show trifecta.

So why do I feel so damn uneasy about this? Have I ramrodded Dorothy into being a guest? Or is my apprehension due to the fact that her appearance comes with a condition, a condition Michael has vetoed, just as swiftly as if it were an ill-advised plan from the city council?

Once again, I wonder if I'm using Michael's veto as an excuse. Regardless, I cannot allow Dorothy to humiliate herself in public. My stomach cramps, and I pitch the apple into the wastebasket.

I've begged Dorothy to reveal her secret before going on air. But each time, she refuses.

“Mari will be the first to hear it.”

Is it possible Dorothy also had a pregnancy scare but never told her friend? Did she lose the baby, or worse, get rid of the child? What secret could be so shameful that she's never told Marilyn?

In the darkest recesses of my mind, I picture Dorothy revealing an affair she'd had years ago with Thomas, Marilyn's deceased husband. It's almost impossible to imagine, but what if she had? Dorothy has always spoken highly of Thomas Armstrong. She was even at his bedside when he died. And what about Jackson? Could he be the love child?

A shudder goes through me. For the umpteenth time, it's clear to me that Dorothy shouldn't be making her apology live on television.

And we're fooling Marilyn, too. Stuart agreed with Priscille, insisting we keep Marilyn in the dark. She thinks she's coming to talk about the importance of long-lasting friendships, which we will. But after a quick discussion, Dorothy will apologize for the burden she's been carrying. She'll offer Marilyn the Forgiveness Stone.

A nice, feel-good segment is what Stuart and Priscille expect. But what if Dorothy's apology isn't accepted, or what if the story isn't very compelling? I tell myself I'm too much of a control freak. It'll all be fine. But deep inside I know I'm fooling myself. I need to stop this episode.

“This is a bad idea,” I tell Stuart when he comes to my dressing room with an expense receipt for me to sign. “I have no idea what Dorothy did to hurt Marilyn. Television is not the place to disclose secrets.”

Stuart's props himself on the edge of my desk. “Are you nuts? It's the perfect place. People eat this stuff up.”

I pull my lucky fountain pen from my drawer and take the receipt from Stuart. “I don't care how it's received by viewers, I want to know that it will be well received by Marilyn. I have less than one week to talk Dorothy out of this ridiculous stunt.”

Stuart shakes his finger at me. “Don't even think about it, Farr. You may have had a slight bump in ratings, but the show is still on life support. This episode is about your only hope of resuscitation.”

As soon as Stuart exits, I slump over my desk. I'm screwed! I can either lose my job or risk Dorothy losing her best friend. I sit up when I hear a knock on the open door.

“Hannah,” Claudia says, her voice soft. “Mind if I come in?”

Damn. Since Monday's meeting, I've been avoiding her. “Sure,” I say. “I'm just leaving.” I place the fountain pen back in my drawer, and when I do, I spy the velvet pouch containing the pair of Forgiveness Stones. It feels as if the little pouch is in desk-drawer purgatory, begging to be sent on. I shove it to the far back corner and slam the drawer shut. I move past Claudia and grab my purse from my locker.

“I want you to do the Fiona Knowles show, Hannah. Solo.”

I spin around. “What?”

“You do the show. Alone. I get the distinct impression I've stepped on your toes. I'm sorry. In New York it was so collaborative.”

“Really? New York, the most cutthroat market in the world, was more collaborative? Your apology sounds more like an insult.”

“No. I'm just saying, I'm not used to the way things work here. I moved too quickly, obviously.”

“Did you steal my idea, Claudia? Did you open my file?”

“What?” She puts a hand to her throat. “No! Hannah, God, no! I would never do that.”

“Because I'd already written a proposal to host Fiona.”

She looks up at the ceiling and groans. “Oh, shit. I am so sorry, Hannah. No. Honestly. I had no idea. You see, a few weeks ago the
Times-Picayune
ran an article about Fiona. I swear. I'll show it to you if you want.” She gestures toward the hallway with her thumb, as if she's ready to lead me to her office.

I deflate. “No,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I believe you.”

“That's how I found out about Fiona. I just wanted a fun little segment on the morning news. It was Stuart's idea to bring it to your show.”

“With you as the guest host.”

She looks down. “That was Stuart's idea, too. I can totally see why you're upset. You think I'm trying to steal your job.”

I lift my shoulders. “It has crossed my mind, yes.”

“I promise you, I'm not.” She leans in and lowers her voice. “You can't tell a soul, but Brian just found out he's being traded next season. To Miami. Another three months . . . six max, and we're out of here.”

She looks weary, and I think of my mother, and the forfeiture of roots, of control, that comes with loving a professional athlete.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I say. And I mean it. A gale of shame smacks me. Instead of welcoming Claudia the way I typically do with new colleagues, I've treated her as a threat from day one. “We'll do the Fiona episode together, I insist.”

“No, really. You take it. You're so much better at interviews than I am.”

“I won't hear of it. We'll cohost, just as we'd planned.”

She bites her lip. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I take her by the arms. “And you know what else? I want you with me onstage when we film Dorothy and Marilyn.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh, thank you, Hannah.” She throws her arms around me. “Just when I'm about to leave, I finally feel like I belong here.”