He took it and fished out his glasses and slowly read it. When he finished he tossed it on the table in front of us. He didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then, “Do you know how bad this is?”
“Yes.”
“This is going to go everywhere. Everywhere. Especially since it ties in so perfectly with Lizzie’s disappearance. The tabloids are going to love this. It will play right into their hands. Her mother was a free-living hippie—no wonder she turned out bad.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“A couple of hours. I found out when I went downstairs before dinner.”
“You should have said something immediately.”
“With Jeff there? He would have gone crazy.”
“He will go crazy. And so will the board of Nathaniel Hawthorne High. Not to mention the powers that be at Maine Medical. And then there’s the little matter of the FBI and the Justice Department. You did aid and . . .”
“I know what I did, but it was coercion. And the statement that Margy’s drafting right now . . .”
“I want to see that statement.”
“Fine, fine,” I said, sounding very nervous. “She should have sent it to me by now. I can plug in my laptop and download it.”
“Then do it.”
“Dan, before that, I just want to say . . .”
I touched his shoulder. He shrugged me off.
“I really don’t feel like talking to you right now.”
“But can I explain . . .”
“No, you can’t. I would like to see the book, please.”
“It’s late. And it’s just going to upset you more. Why don’t you wait until—”
“Do you actually think I’m going to sleep now? Get the book, please.”
“Will you read Margy’s statement first?”
“I don’t see why that should matter.”
“Just please read the statement first.”
“Whatever,” he said.
I got out my laptop, brought it to the little desk in the room, and plugged it into the data port. As soon as I was online, I checked my email. There were several messages from friends who had seen the Boston Herald story—even one from Sheila Platt, who wrote, “As a mother, I cannot imagine a worse nightmare than the one you are going through right now. Please know that I am praying for you and Dan, and especially for the safe return of Lizzie. And though I certainly don’t approve of the ‘F’ word, I can completely understand your reaction to that horrible television reporter.”
People do surprise you sometimes. I made a mental note to write a thank-you email to Sheila tomorrow. Then I clicked on Margy’s email:
Here it is, hon. Hope you approve. Call me back a.s.a.p. I want to work the phones first thing tomorrow to get this response covered in as many places as I can.
Courage
Love
Margy
The press release ran for two pages and systematically trashed everything that Judson had written. It attacked Chuck Cann for invading our privacy by naming us as the people behind the pseudonyms. It did acknowledge that we’d had sex on two occasions, that I still felt tremendous guilt about this one betrayal of my husband, but that I saw the affair as nothing more than a foolish two-day fling—and that I certainly did not consider Tobias Judson to be the love of my life, nor did I ever utter a comment like “I will never forget you.”
Where Margy really hit hard was in the section about his fleeing to Canada, saying that the assertion that I offered to drive him to Quebec was a complete invention.
Hannah Buchan refutes Mr. Judson’s claim that she volunteered to help him flee the country. She wishes to make absolutely clear that Mr. Judson fabricated almost all the dialogue in the chapter in which she appears under the pseudonym of Alison. She wishes to state that Mr. Judson coerced her into driving him into Canada, saying that if she did not help him flee he would expose their affair and if captured in the United States by the FBI—he would implicate her.
“I am in no way attempting to make excuses for betraying my husband or trying to justify my actions back then. I made a series of wrong decisions—and I accept full responsibility for them. However, the assertion that I was motivated by political belief or love for Mr. Judson in helping him flee is an outright lie. He offered me a stark choice—either drive him or risk exposure. I was a young woman with a young child—guilty for what I had done and desperately scared. It was blackmail—and, under the circumstances, I felt I had no choice but to do what he demanded. It’s a decision I have regretted ever since.”
Margy followed this with a parenthesis for my attention:
(Hon: I know this is a complete mea culpa, but I think it’s what’s needed. Also: I spoke with the lawyers and they are completely cool about us having you call Judson an outright liar and a blackmailer. They feel he has no legal comeback—when he has made such absurd assertions about your role in the story. Now don’t freak or be furious with me when you read the next paragraph, but I knew that I had to get a statement from your dad and figured that, under the circumstances, it was easiest if I approached him directly. I also went ahead and explained the shitty situation you found yourself in—and how he’d been implicated in Judson’s book as well . . . just as you were now having to do some difficult explaining to Dan about all these past events. I was also able to get the offending chapter scanned and sent up to him by email—so he could read it and respond. I know this was a big liberty on my part, but as time is of the essence vis-à-vis getting this press release out, and you were dreading having to talk to your dad about all this, I decided to brave your wrath and tell him myself. I think I want to run off with your dad—if he doesn’t think me too old. He couldn’t have been more sympathetic—or more horrified on your behalf. He was going to call you immediately, but when I said you had to talk things over with Dan, he said he’d phone tomorrow.)
I was hardly angry with Margy. On the contrary, my relief at not having to explain everything to Dad was massive. All I had been doing recently was trying to explain everything to others . . . and, most of all, to myself.
I read on.
Hannah Buchan’s father—the distinguished historian John Winthrop Latham (referred to in Mr. Judson’s book as James Windsor Longley, but named in the Canned News feature on the book)—comments, “I have read the chapter in question of Mr. Judson’s book and am shocked by his deceitful manipulation of past events for his own purposes, his wild departures from the truth, and his wanton cruelty.”
Dad then went on to refute everything in Judson’s chapter about us. He stated that he knew Judson well in those days, but never shared his brand of coercive revolutionary politics.
“He always asserted he was in the Students for a Democratic Society, which was the political wing of the antiwar movement, whereas, as he now clearly admits, he was in bed with the Weathermen and their brand of violent protest.”
He also admitted he knew Judson was in “a bit of trouble,” but that he never knew he was on the run from the FBI. So, yes, he did send Judson to me:
“A decision I have always regretted and one which subsequently caused a rift between my daughter and myself which, thanks to her decency and forgiveness, was repaired years ago. Had I known what he had been involved with, I would never have suggested he stay with Hannah.”
Dad even came clean on his unfaithfulness.
“My wife, who is now suffering from a degenerative illness, was aware of my adulterous behavior and was eventually able to forgive me. Our marriage has lasted fifty-three years—and I think that speaks volumes. Though I am appalled by Mr. Judson’s callousness in exposing aspects of my private life, I will not attempt to soft-pedal my past actions. I was wrong. I would like to say that I am thoroughly appalled that Mr. Judson has seen fit to detail a brief romantic liaison with Hannah that happened thirty years ago—knowing full well that it could cause her and her husband enormous pain, even though it must now be considered nothing more than ancient history. Dishing t
he dirt on your past for personal gain may not be the most attractive spectacle, but it’s a personal decision. But when you implicate other people in your story—knowing full well you are going to destroy their reputations in the process, decades after the events in question—you show yourself to be the worst sort of amoral opportunist.”
The release then ended with the statement that, given the terrible strain under which Dan and I were currently living, considering the disappearance of our daughter, we asked that the media respect our privacy at this difficult juncture in our lives. There was a final comment in parentheses from Margy:
(The chance of any news organization heeding this final paragraph is somewhere between absurd and preposterous. But I still thought it had to be said. Delete all my little asides before you show this to Dan—and call me as soon as it’s possible for you to talk. Hang in there.)
I did as instructed, deleting all of Margy’s editorial passages. Then I turned to Dan, who was standing by the window, looking out into the dark night, and said, “You can read it now.”
“You mean now that you’ve excised—”
“Dan . . .”
“Well, I did hear you using one key repeatedly. Delete, no doubt.”
“I just removed a few editorial comments she made, that’s all.”
“Because you didn’t want me to see them. Because you’re hiding something, just like you’ve been hiding something for thirty years.”
“Look, I know you are very angry at me right now. And you have every right to be. But please, try to remember—”
“What? That this all happened three decades ago, and I should just act like it never took place?”
“I’m not saying that—”
“Well, if you’re looking for instant forgiveness right now, sorry . . . no sale.”
He stood up and walked over to the closet and opened it and took out his coat.
“Where are you heading?”
“Out.”
“Out where?” I asked.
“Does that matter?”
“No, but . . .”
“I am going out, Hannah, because I don’t want to be in the same room with you right now.”
Without thinking, I hung my head.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “But don’t you want to read . . . ?”
I pointed to the computer.
“Email it to me,” he said.
He reached for Judson’s book and shoved it under his arm.
“When will you be back?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, walking toward the door.
“Margy needs an okay on the press release.”
“I said: email it to me and I’ll send you a reply.”
I turned and reached for him.
“Dan, sweetheart, I’m . . .”
He dodged my hand.
“Hannah, I don’t want to talk.”
“Sorry. Truly sorry.”
“I’m sure you are.”
I felt my eyes fill up with tears.
“Dan, I don’t want to lose . . .”
“Good night,” he said, and walked out the door.
I didn’t start to weep uncontrollably. I didn’t fall apart. Instead, there was a very long moment where I stood by the door, not knowing what to do next.
Finally I sat down at the desk. I copied the press release and pasted it into an email and sent it to Dan. Then I turned off the computer and closed it shut. Again thinking: What next?
SEVENTEEN
DAN DIDN’T COME back that night. I waited up for him until three and twice called his cell phone. No answer. When I spoke with Margy at midnight—our second conversation of the evening—she counseled patience.
“The guy’s in shock,” she said, “as you would be if you got a piece of news like that. It’s going to take him a little while to absorb it and realize that it did happen a long time ago and that you don’t deserve to be hung, drawn, and quartered for it. At the same time, you’ve got to understand that he’s probably scared shitless about how all the dirt that Judson dished will play with the board of the hospital, his clients, the asshole golf buddies at the country club.”
“But he’s going to come out of it all looking like the Wronged Man—whereas I’m going to seem like the harpy, the slut . . . and rightfully so.”
“Don’t start flagellating yourself just yet. If all goes well, we’re going to be able to spin this favorably and show you to be a model citizen with a solid marriage, commanding great respect in your community as an educator, and all that other all-American crap people go for. You’ll be seen as someone who made a youthful mistake that she now acknowledges and regrets all the pain she’s inflicted on her loved ones, blah, blah, blah.”
“You make it sound like such an easy sell.”
“What you have to understand is that, in the eyes of the media, the only reason you merit interest is that your daughter is missing and her doctor lover has a TV show and is still under suspicion as the cause of said disappearance. That’s it. Had Lizzie been found by now—had she never disappeared in the first place—there wouldn’t be one-fifth of the attention there is now. They’ve got a hook, Missing Girl’s Mom Was Onetime Lover of FBI Wanted Radical, and they’re going to run with it. But, believe me, it’s not a story with legs. It’s a footnote—one that asshole McQueen will appreciate, because it will take some pressure off him for a couple of days . . . though until she’s found, the media circus will still revolve around him.
“Did you speak to your dad yet?”
I had—and true to form, he was wonderful.
“Of all the major mistakes I’ve made in my life—and there have been a multitude,” he said, “one of the worst was sending that appalling man to you.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Dad, for anything beyond that. It was my decision to sleep with him. Just as it was my decision to give in to his threats and drive him across the border.”
“You’re too forgiving.”
“No, I’m not. But this is long-ago stuff. Anyway, you did your penance—as I did mine. Or, at least, I thought I had.”
“The book is just a cavalcade of lies, not to mention execrably written.”
“I don’t think those ‘fair and balanced’ people at Fox News are going to worry too much about its literary style. All they’re going to see is that it’s a onetime Weatherman turned George Bush lapdog, an illicit affair, radical politics of the despised 1960s, and, best of all, the felicitous connection between the onetime adulteress and her missing daughter, who might have been murdered by her married celebrity doctor lover. Talk about history repeating itself . . .”
“I’ve told Margy I’ll do anything she asks when it comes up—and I’d even be happy to take on the right-wing media in interviews or articles. We’re not going to just sit there and let them savage you.”
“I should have told you long ago about the affair,” I said.
“What good would that have done? Anyway, your private life is your private life.”
“It’s a pretty damn public life now,” I said.
I repeated what he said to Margy.
“Well, there you go—and among the many amazing things about your dad is that he is so quick to admit when he’s gotten something wrong. Do you know how rare that is . . . especially in a man? Speaking of which, don’t be surprised if you don’t see your husband for the rest of the night.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because just while we’ve been speaking, he’s emailed me his okay for the press release.”
“What did he write, exactly?”
“I’ll read it to you: Dear Margy—press release ok by me . . . Dan. Pretty straight and to the point.”
“Did he say where he was emailing from?”
“Of course not—and why would he? He’s probably at his office or maybe he snuck back home. My advice to you is give him some space. If you start calling him now, begging him to come back and forgive you, you’ll just get his back up. He will get ov
er it . . . but it might take some time.”
I still tried his cell phone one more time after hanging up with Margy. When I got his voice mail, I said, “It’s me. And I just want to say that I miss you being here tonight and that I have always loved you, and I will always continue to love you, and I am very, very sorry for all this. Please call me.”
There was a part of me that felt I was being a little too beseeching and another part of me that thought I wasn’t being beseeching enough. More than anything I wanted him back here with me, in this bed, safe and secure and all those things long-married people take for granted until they are suddenly taken away from them, and the specter of impending loss clouds the horizon, and they find themselves thinking: Surely we’re not going to fall apart now after all these years?
I tried to sleep. It was impossible. I raided the minibar and drank two of those expensive airplane-sized bottles of vodka. Then I made the mistake of channel-surfing and found myself staring at myself on Fox News. The item was third from the top in the one a.m. headlines. First came a photo of Lizzie projected behind the blond talking head presenting the news. Over this, in a breathy, urgent voice, she said:
No new developments in the disappearance of Boston investment banker Elizabeth Buchan, last seen on April 4 when she stormed out of a downtown hotel after an argument with her married lover, celebrity dermatologist Mark McQueen. Yesterday, Boston police asked McQueen to surrender his passport, as he remains the prime suspect in the case, even though he has constantly protested his innocence.
The camera cut away to a chunky, well-dressed man in his fifties speaking to a group of reporters. Under his image was the caption: Bernard Canton . . . Lawyer for McQueen. His sound bite lasted thirty seconds:
To show his complete willingness to cooperate with the police, my client has agreed to hand over his passport. He has clearly stated that he will continue to give all assistance demanded of him by those looking for Elizabeth Buchan. Dr. McQueen has witnesses on the evening in question who can vouch for his whereabouts at the time of Ms. Buchan’s disappearance, so I do feel that the Boston police are grasping at straws by even hinting that my client is under investigation.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 153
