Oh God, this can’t be happening . . .
The cell phone started ringing again. It was Dan. He sounded exceedingly tense.
“Hi, it’s me. Has Jeff spoken to you?”
“Dan, hon, I was completely misquoted in that article. I promise you I never said we were bad parents. And that shit of a journalist completely twisted my words about Lizzie’s abortion . . .”
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said flatly.
“What do you mean by that?”
“The damage is done.”
“Dan, he took what I said and—”
“My office has been flooded with phone calls this morning—largely from news agencies and television stations, all asking for a quote, an interview. And there must be around fifteen messages on our home phone from the same damn journalists, all wanting to invade our lives and talk about our poor tragic, crazy daughter who may or may not have been murdered by her doctor lover, and whose foot-in-mouth mother condoned her abortion and also admitted that she was raised badly.”
By the time he had reached the end of this sentence, Dan was sounding very angry. I said nothing for a moment, the phone shaking in my hand.
“Are you still there, Hannah?” he asked.
“I’m here—and I won’t be scapegoated for this.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about that abortion comment?”
“I tried, but you weren’t interested . . .”
“Don’t tell me you’re playing that pass the blame game again . . .”
“‘Again’? What you do mean, ‘again’? I don’t make a habit of passing the blame . . .”
“No, you just refuse to take responsibility for your actions.”
“Like when?”
“Like now.”
“Dan, I’ll say it again: I tried to tell you that the interview went very wrong. You pooh-poohed it.”
“Don’t try to get out of it, Hannah.”
“If you hadn’t been such a damn coward and had handled the interview—”
“Fuck you,” he said, and the line went dead.
I sat down at my desk, I put my head in my hands, I didn’t know what to do next. The cell phone started ringing again.
“Mrs. Buchan, it’s Rudy Warren here of the National Enquirer . . .”
“I have nothing to say at this time,” I said, and closed the phone. Now my desk phone sprang into life. I answered it, immediately saying, “Can you call me later?”
“Uh, well, I was hoping to see you now, Hannah,” said a voice I knew all too well. It was the headmaster, Mr. Andrews.
“Sorry, Mr. Andrews, I’m having a terrible morning.”
“I can well imagine that you are. If it’s a bad moment . . .”
“No, sir, I’m free.”
“Well, would you mind dropping down to my office for a few moments, please?”
Carl Andrews was a man who made everyone feel uncomfortable. He was an ex-marine who quietly boasted about the fact that he ran a tight ship, and was known for having one of the strictest public schools in Maine. Adolescent insubordination was never tolerated—though it broke out regularly—and Andrews encouraged a distant relationship between himself and his staff. He was the commanding officer, we were the ground troops, and he made it known that he was “Mr. Andrews” or “Sir” to us. None of that cordial first-name collegiality in his school. Yet he was able to get away with such aloof protocol by being absolutely fair in his dealings with all of us and, in several instances, defending his staff.
I walked down the corridor to his office, hoping he’d show his customary fairness toward me. Because I certainly knew why he wanted to see me.
He was seated behind his big steel desk—his office decor was very simple, with an American flag in one corner, his Marine Corps discharge and U. Maine diplomas framed on the wall, and a photograph of him receiving Maine Educator of the Year from the governor a few years back. There was a copy of that morning’s Boston Herald in front of him.
He greeted me with a nod and motioned for me to sit down.
“First, I just want to say how sorry I am about your daughter’s disappearance. No matter how old the child may be, she’s still your child, and the worry must be enormous. And I want you to know that you have the school’s complete support during this very trying time. If you need to take a few days off . . .”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” I said, “but I’d prefer to keep working.”
“Understood,” he said. “Now I must raise a couple of things with you. The first is media attention. The school has already received seven calls this morning from assorted journalists, asking for a comment about you, whether you’re a good teacher and did we think you raised your kids well, since some of the TV and newspaper people had found out they went here. I’ve issued a statement—very simple, very straightforward—and am about to send out a memo to all staff, informing them that they are not to talk to the press and that they should inform Mrs. Ivens about any approaches from the media. Anyway, here’s the statement.”
He handed me a photocopied piece of Nathaniel Hawthorne School–headed notepaper, on which there was one neatly typed paragraph, in which Mr. Andrews said that I had been a teacher at this school for over fifteen years—“an esteemed member of our faculty”—and that the school was fully supporting me during this time of difficulty. He also stated that Jeff and Lizzie had been students at Nathaniel Hawthorne, where they distinguished themselves academically and were well known to be stable, well-reared children. In closing, he asked that both my privacy and that of the school’s be respected—and that the school would not enter into a debate about the rights and wrongs of my statements regarding my daughter’s private life.
“I think I’d better explain that final sentence,” Carl Andrews said. “As you may know, we have several parents here who are devoutly religious. You probably remember Trisha Cooper, who tried to get us to stop teaching the theory of evolution in science class. I have no doubt that, once she reads about your support for your daughter’s termination, she will organize a campaign against you. I’m not telling you this to scare you—rather, just so you know what you could be up against. Because there are at least two dozen Trisha Coopers who are parents in this school. As far as I’m concerned, they are perfectly entitled to hold their views, just as you are perfectly entitled to hold yours. But if they start telling me that I shouldn’t be employing a teacher who doesn’t toe their line on certain things, that’s when I bring out the heavy artillery.”
“Thank you, Mr. Andrews.”
“May I give you a piece of advice, Hannah? No matter how much they badger you for an interview, just issue a simple statement and tell them you have no further comment. If you take their bait, they will definitely eat you alive.”
Margy said the same thing when I spoke to her directly after this meeting. Something about Carl Andrews’s reassurances—his resolve to protect me should certain Bible thumpers start calling for my head—calmed me down slightly. “Okay, here’s the bad news,” Margy said. “It’s a slow time, mediawise, right now, so the news channels and the tabloid press will have decided that Lizzie’s disappearance has all the right ingredients for a big story. Remember that pregnant housewife who vanished in California around a year ago—and her preppy husband kept denying he had anything to do with it, until her body was fished out of the drink and it turned out he’d been shtupping some real estate agent? Well, excuse my streetwise crudeness, but from what the people at the office have been telling me, the folks at Fox News and the Enquirer and People and all those other bastions of free speech think that this story is picture perfect for a long run—especially since McQueen hired legal counsel this morning.”
“Is he admitting that he . . . ?”
“Don’t jump to the worst conclusions. It’s just that, with all the accusations swirling around him right now, he figures he needs an attorney, and you know what? He’s right.”
“Good God . . .”
“According to the statement released by McQueen’s lawyer, which I’ve just had emailed over to me at home . . .”
“Margy, you should be resting right now, not worrying about all this . . .”
“Fuck off,” she said with a laugh. “As Uncle Sigmund Freud once said, ‘Work is the closest thing to sanity,’ especially when you’re undergoing chemo.”
“That’s the second time this hour someone has told me to fuck off,” I said, recounting Dan’s blowup on the phone.
“He’s understandably tense,” Margy said. “And he probably feels guilty about passing the buck to you by making you do the interview . . .”
“No, he’s looking for a scapegoat . . . and I’m it.”
“If you want me to talk to him—”
“I can fight that battle myself . . . but thanks for offering. When it comes to the press, however . . .”
“I want you to go home and put a message on your voice mail saying that all press inquiries are being handled by Margy Sinclair Associates—and leave our New York phone number on the message. And I want you to screen all calls and not answer the phone if some journalist calls. Tell Dan to do the same thing—and get his secretary to send all interview requests to us. You guys just lie low and let us take the heat. And I’m going to email you over a prepared statement I’ve drafted on your behalf. What was the name of the shrink she was seeing in Boston?”
I gave her Dr. Thornton’s number in Cambridge and said that I’d phone him right away and ask that he give Margy any assistance she needed.
“I’m also going to need to talk with the detective handling the case. Can you tell him I’m legit and in your corner?”
“Of course.”
“The important thing here is that you try to remember one crucial thing about this entire shitty business,” Margy said. “Once the press have worked out that neither you nor Dan will speak with them, they will back off. Hopefully, we’ll be able to keep this thing as contained as possible.”
By the end of the day, containment seemed a fantasy. When I arrived home from school, there was a Fox television crew on my doorstep. As soon as I stepped out of the car, a young aggressive woman shoved a microphone in my face while a cameraman pressed in close behind.
“Mrs. Buchan, any comment about your daughter’s disappearance?”
Instinctually, I put my hand over my face and said, “I have nothing to say at this—”
The journalist cut me off.
“Do you believe that Dr. McQueen might have murdered her?”
“I have nothing to say . . .”
“And how many abortions before this one did you sanction?”
Without thinking, I shouted, “How fucking dare you . . .”
Then I shoved her out of my way. But she kept pursuing me, saying, “And is it true that you consider yourself a bad mother who . . .”
I turned back, yelling, “Leave me alone,” then rushed toward the door, managing to slam it in her face just as she started asking if I knew that three of Lizzie’s ex-boyfriends had just come forward to say that she stalked them. As soon as I was safely behind the door, the phone began to ring. I reached for the extension near the front door.
“Mrs. Buchan, it’s Dan Buford from the New York Post . . .”
“Please call Margy Sinclair at Margy Sinclair Associates. She’s—”
“But Margy told me it was okay for me to speak with you directly.”
“She didn’t say anything to me.”
“Did you know that Dr. McQueen had to surrender his passport this afternoon and that they’re currently dragging the Charles—”
“I hope that bastard gets whatever he deserves . . .”
“So you do think he’s behind your daughter’s disappearance?”
“Please call Margy Sinclair at—”
“Why have you hired a publicist, Mrs. Buchan? It’s pretty unusual for a Maine schoolteacher, isn’t it? Unless you have something to hide . . .”
I hung up. There was banging on the door. And shouting, “Mrs. Buchan . . . Hannah Buchan . . .”
I peered out of the blinds, only to find the same Fox cameraman with his lens up against the glass. I could feel my face contort before I slammed down the blind. Then my cell phone started ringing again.
“Will you please leave me alone!” I yelled into the receiver.
“It’s Dad.”
“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry, I’m . . .”
“I’ve just seen the Herald piece, and Margy just called to let me know that the press vultures are descending, and I could get a call or two . . .”
“It’s been hideous here,” I said, and brought him up to date on everything that had happened so far today.
“Don’t worry about the abortion thing,” he said. “There are a lot of people who will privately applaud you for taking that stance.”
“Unfortunately, those people don’t work for tabloid newspapers and their television counterparts.”
“Your headmaster sounds like he’s a good man.”
“Yeah—ex-marines can occasionally surprise you. My husband, on the other hand . . .”
“Let him calm down a bit.”
There was now more banging on the back door.
“Hannah Buchan . . . Hannah Buchan . . . Just a few questions . . .”
“I’m under siege here,” I told my father.
“Margy told me not to answer any questions.”
“Well, if this keeps up, I’m going into hiding . . .”
“No news from the detective?”
“One of the reporters told me they’re dragging the Charles and that McQueen has had to give up his passport.”
Even on the bad cell phone line, I could hear my father’s sharp intake of breath.
“That means nothing,” he finally said.
“Let us pray.”
I hung up and moved to the kitchen, and looked at the answering machine. The message counter listed twenty-four voice mails. I fast forwarded through them—almost all from news media, with the exception of Alice Armstrong calling me to offer solidarity and say if there was anything she could do . . .
How about gathering up every attack dog in Portland and positioning them on my front lawn to keep the hacks away?
I rerecorded the message on our voice mail, informing all journalists to contact Margy Sinclair Associates . . .
Then I braved a call to Dan’s office. His secretary answered.
“Oh, Hannah, God . . . what a business,” she said. “We had a film crew here and I must have logged over twenty calls.”
“Did Dan speak to any of the journalists?”
“He’s been with patients all afternoon. And he’s operating right now. Anyway, I got a call from a Margy Sinclair who said she’s running interference for you . . .”
Bless Margy for her superefficiency.
“That’s right,” I said.
“She also said that the doctor shouldn’t talk to the press.”
“Correct. And when my husband gets out of surgery, would you also tell him that he shouldn’t come home, as there’s a television crew outside?”
From the kitchen window, I could see an NBC affiliate truck pull up.
“And tell him to call me as soon as he’s free.”
I knew that I had to flee the house but I realized that this would require a certain degree of subterfuge. So I called the local cab company and asked if they could send a taxi over to my home. I told the dispatcher that I wanted him to drive down an adjoining side street and wait for me in front of a large colonial house with the name Connolly on the mailbox.
“But you’re Mrs. Buchan who lives at number eighty-eight Chamberlain,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“So why can’t I send my guy to your front door?”
“I’ll explain that later.”
“Okay, what time do you want him there?”
I glanced out the window at the encroaching darkness.
“Say, half an hour.”
I hung up. I called the Hilton Garden Inn downtown and booked two rooms for the night, one in my name, the other in Jeff’s. Then I rang Dan’s secretary and asked her to tell “the doctor” that he should meet his wife at the Hilton Garden Inn—and that I’d explain all when I got there. After that, I took a deep breath and phoned my son on his cell phone. His tone was distant, punitive.
“I’m in a rented car, outside of Wells,” he said, mentioning the town on the Maine/New Hampshire border. “I should be with you in around forty-five minutes.”
“Well, I want you to meet me and your father downtown,” I said, giving him the name of the hotel and explaining why he couldn’t come to the house.
“How did this thing develop into a three-ring circus?” he asked angrily.
“Blame The Boston Herald, Jeff.”
“Your comment about abortion certainly didn’t aid things either.”
I was about to get very angry but stopped myself and said, “We’ll talk about all this later at the hotel.”
Then I hung up.
I went upstairs and packed a bag with enough clothes for several nights. Then I went to my office and put my laptop computer into my travel bag. Margy rang just as I finished.
“You won’t believe what’s going on here,” I said, glancing out the window. The ABC affiliate truck had also pulled up outside. “It’s like there’s a media feeding frenzy . . .”
“I know all about it—you were on Fox News around five minutes ago.”
“But I refused to give them an interview,” I said, sounding shocked.
“Yeah, they showed that.”
Oh, God . . .
“Did they also show when I—”
“Told their reporter to fuck off? Of course they did. It’s Fox News—they love messing up people’s lives . . . though being oh-so family values, they censored the ‘fuck.’”
“I looked demented, didn’t I? Completely loony tunes.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 150
