Remember This

by Patricia Koerner

  Hannah sunk back into the chair, shivering. Suddenly a warm wind arose. It felt soft, like a summer breeze. It blew through her hair and caressed her face and body. When it finally died down, Hannah had stopped shivering. A feeling of profound peace spread through her and within minutes, she was asleep.

  When Hannah woke up, she was still slumped in the balcony chair. Street noise floated up, reminding her of the life still going on around her. Cold and stiff, she made her way inside. Though she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her heart, she was so drained that she found strength enough only to take a hot soaking bath and crawl into bed.

  ***

  Hannah couldn’t quite remember how many times she woke up over the next three days – to eat a bite, use the bathroom, etc., but when she finally decided to get up and dress, the sun was bright and cast soft striped shadows on the wall and ceiling of her bedroom. Starting up, she ran to her desk and checked her calendar. She had a meeting scheduled with Tom Carson, the managing director of the off-Broadway theatre where she worked as a rehearsal (and sometimes performance) pianist. They were going to discuss the schedule of upcoming shows. Since she was “downsized” from her teaching position at Columbia University five years previously, Hannah had lived on this job, investment income and royalties from her songs. Over the past couple of years, she had written compositions which were used in TV commercials.

  While she waited for Carson to finish a conference call, Hannah looked around her at the photos of past productions and some of the better known actors and actresses who have appeared in them. She remembered some of the stories her parents told her of their days in the theatre. Her father, Larry, who was from Minnesota, came to New York after serving in the infantry during World War II to answer what he felt was his calling to be an actor. Here, he met Jeanne Pelletier, a native New Yorker, who was a painter and set designer at the theatre where he was then playing. Her father told Hannah that it took quite a while before he could convince Jeanne to date him, but that it was worth it because it wasn’t long before they fell in love. Larry and Jeanne married in October 1950 and the following year moved to California because they decided that the “ground was more fertile there,” as Larry put it.

  During the meeting, Carson told Hannah that they were going to produce only three musicals next season rather than the usual five. “Musicals are expensive. We have to cut back on them and do more non-musicals,” he said. “I hope you will still remain with us.” Hannah was somewhat disappointed, but agreed to stay. She hoped her abilities would return by then. She hadn’t dared to try playing the piano since her failed attempt, terrified of the thought of never being able to play again.

  2

  Hannah decided to pick up lunch at a deli and eat it in Riverside Park. She found a bench where she could look out onto the Hudson and watch the boats. As she ate a hoagie sandwich, she noticed a young woman slowly approach from her right and sit on the bench next to Hannah. Hannah bristled at what she felt was an intrusion on her personal space, but it was a public bench, so she merely ignored the young woman. After a few moments of silence, the young woman said, “I enjoy watching the boats. I find it relaxing. Do you, too, Ms. Newman?”

  Hannah whirled to face her. “How do you know who I am?” she demanded. She held her hand up as the young woman began to answer. “Never mind. I know.” She turned back to face the river. “I thought I was rid of you people.”

  The woman laughed. Hannah noticed it was a sweet, melodious laugh. “Yes, I heard about the other day.”

  “And still you have the nerve to come here and bother me again?” Hannah shook her head in disbelief.

  “I didn’t bother you before. I’m not a reporter.”

  Hannah looked closely at the woman. She appeared to be about 30 years old, several inches taller than Hannah, with curly hair that was a rich reddish brown color. It fell past her shoulders and seemed to have successfully resisted all attempts to tame it. Bright blue eyes peered at Hannah through horn rimmed glasses perched on a long straight nose. She wore jeans and an oversized sweater with sleeves that were too long. Hannah was now certain this woman was not among the reporters who had harassed her. “All right, then. Who are you and what do you want?”

  “My name is Sophie Alessandro and I’m a writer. I want to write your side of the story.”

  “Oh, so you think my privacy hasn’t been invaded enough and you want to do a more thorough job? Is that it? I am only going to say this once, Miss Alessandro. Fuck. Off.”

  As Hannah said this, Sophie brought out her tablet and quickly pulled up a web page. She shoved the tablet towards Hannah. “Look,” she said. “This is what’s going around about you.”

  Hannah turned away in disgust. “I’ve already seen that garbage.”

  “Do you want to give people like this the last word? Wouldn’t you rather speak up and give your side, speak your piece?”

  Hannah got up from the bench and began walking away. Sophie followed behind her. “What about John? It’s his name too, being dragged through the muck. Don’t you want to at least defend him? He can’t anymore, so I guess it’s up to you now.”

  Hannah spun around, a string of profanities ready to spring from her lips, but something about Sophie made her bite back her words. Hannah couldn’t put her finger on it, but she felt compelled somehow to stop and listen. As Hannah was regarding her, Sophie said, “Please, at least listen to my idea. If you don’t like it, I promise I’ll do as you say. I’ll fuck off.”

  Hannah stifled a smile. “All right, give me your contact information and I’ll think about it.” Sophie pulled out a small white card with her name, phone number and e-mail address written on it.

  As she slid the card into her bag, Hannah said, “I’ll let you know either way.” She then turned and exited the park onto West 78th Street.

  ***

  Hannah sat at her desk, holding Sophie’s card in her hand, toying with it. Since their meeting, Hannah has been weighing the pros and cons of Sophie’s proposition. It seemed a pretty straightforward decision. While there was a possibility of prolonging the scandal by drawing further attention to it, there was also that having the last word, as Sophie had said. Hannah had always been a deeply private person, had always kept her feelings to herself. She never opened her heart to anyone but John and her younger brother, Danny. Even her closest friends knew only what she chose to tell them and it usually wasn’t much. She wasn’t sure she could do this. It could prove very painful for someone like her to put things before the public she had thus far kept hidden in the deepest corners of her heart.

  As Hannah was pondering this, she was jolted by her phone ringing. It was Matty. “Mom, I think I’ve finally gotten to the bottom of this mess. When John died, his lawyer, who was also his executor, took possession of all his assets, as is customary, until the will is probated and his estate settled. These assets included a bank safety deposit box which contained, among other things, a ring which apparently you gave him.”

  Hannah’s heart jumped. “I gave John that ring for his birthday. Oh, Matty, is there any way I can get it back?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. By law, when you gave John that ring, it became his property and now is part of his estate. You have no legal claim to it.”

  “I know, but please, could you at least check into it? It would mean everything to me. I’d even be willing to pay the estate the current value for it.”

  “OK, Mom, but just don’t get your hopes up too high. It’s a long shot. Now, let me tell you the rest of it. A clerk in the lawyer’s employ saw the potential for a big payoff and shopped the photos and story to the tabloid media. I, in your behalf, jointly with the lawyer retained by John’s ... um, widow … filed for an injunction to have the website shut down. A Los Angeles County judge granted it this morning.”

  “Are there going to be any criminal charges filed against this clerk or the law firm?”

  “I don’t know. I think the lawyers out there are still
deciding that.”

  “Thanks, Sweetie. Thanks for everything. How’s Paula feeling?”

  “Oh, a little morning sickness, but she takes care of it with some saltines and a little ginger ale. I have a brief I have to finish by tomorrow, so I need to go. I won’t forget to inquire about the ring. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know anything. Try to take it easy.”

  Later that afternoon, Hannah got off the subway at the 96th Street station and stepped out into the bright sunlight. The day was brisk and Hannah was in the mood for a walk. Though Los Angeles born and raised, Hannah considered herself a New Yorker now and had acquired the love for walking that seemed to come naturally to New Yorkers. She walked randomly south and then west. On 95th, near Park Avenue, Hannah stopped in front of a Catholic church, St. Francis de Sales. She smiled, remembering the St. Francis de Sales elementary school she attended as a child. On impulse, she entered the church, pausing a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dark vestibule. The faint odor of incense brought back memories of the ethereal ceremony of the Catholic Mass. Out of habit, she stepped up to the font, dipped her fingers into the holy water and crossed herself.

  Hannah had for a long time had mixed feelings about her religious background. Her mother was so rigid and doctrinaire about enforcing Catholic beliefs and practices on her children that Hannah stopped attending Mass when she moved to New York to attend Performing Arts Academy. During her graduate years at Columbia and later at the University of Utah, researching, teaching and performing world music, she took the opportunity to explore other religions – Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, among others. Eventually, when Hannah came to understand more about her mother’s illness, she realized that Jeanne’s faith was for most of her life, one of only two stabilizing elements in her life – the other being Larry and his constant love for her. In the end, Hannah returned to her spiritual roots, though attended Mass only occasionally.

  Hannah now walked over to the bank of candles and contemplated them for a moment. She reached into the pocket of her trousers, pulled out the change from her lunch purchase and pushed it into the donation box. She lit a candle, watching the flame blacken the wick. “Where are you now, John? Wherever you are, I hope you are at peace,” she murmured. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. She watched the tendrils of smoke rise up to the ceiling, hoping her prayer and all the prayers represented by the candles, reached the ears they were intended to. As she turned to leave, Hannah noticed a statue of St. Anne, the grandmother of Jesus, with the child Virgin Mary. She was touched by the tender depiction of a mother and her little girl. After contemplating the statue for a moment or two, she left the church and turned towards home.

  As she walked along 95th Street, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Sophie's number. She was still nervous about her decision to go ahead with the project. When Sophie answered, Hannah invited her to lunch to discuss the possibility. “Do you like Greek food?” she asked.

  “Italian's the best, of course, but sure, I can do Greek.”

  “Let's get together Friday at the Ithaka, on East 86th, at two o'clock and see what we can work out. Will that be all right for you?”

  “Yes, great. Friday at two it is.”

  Since the Ithaka was only a block from Hannah's apartment, she arrived early and chose a booth toward the back of the restaurant. Greek bouzouki music played in the background as Hannah perused the menu. Hannah had acquired a taste for Greek food when Tony, Matty's father, took her on a concert tour of Europe during their marriage and Athens had been one of their stops. On days when Hannah didn't feel like cooking, she would sometimes eat here and practice the Greek she had learned with the owners whenever they were there. Presently, Sophie joined her. She had exchanged her heavy sweater for a graphic tee and hoodie and her curly hair seemed as wild as ever.

  When they had placed their orders, Sophie said, “I guess you want to know something about me before we start.” When Hannah gestured to her to continue, she went on, “Well, I was born on June 14, 1983 here in New York – Astoria, Queens, actually. My parents, Lorenzo and Cristina, named me after Sophia Loren because they're really big fans of hers. They – and I – have seen probably every movie she ever made – twice. I have a younger brother, Frankie who is 26 years old. My parents have given up, I think, on me ever getting my act together, especially since I moved back home with them after last Christmas when I broke up with my boyfriend, Eddie. I have a journalism degree from CUNY and up until now, I've published exactly three magazine pieces and I worked for a while for the New York Star, but I want to work on something more substantial, more meaningful.” Sophie stopped suddenly. “I didn't mean to go rambling on like that. Sorry.”

  “My turn, now?’ asked Hannah as their meals arrived.

  “Well, actually I ‘googled’ both you and John. A good writer always does her research.”

  “I know,” said Hannah with a wry smile. “I read your articles. They’re excellent – articulate, your ideas well presented. It is one of the reasons I decided to consider your proposal. You see, I do my research, too.”

  Hannah decided not to tell Matty about the project, since she was certain he would, at the very least, have doubts about the whole idea. She and Sophie would begin work the following Monday.

  ***

  Sophie arrived promptly at ten o’clock, with recorder and notebooks ready to go. She noticed Hannah’s Golden Globe statue, from 1980, and her Grammy, from 1981, on the fireplace mantel. “May I pick them up?”

  “Sure, go ahead. They’re not particularly fragile.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of these of course, but never actually held one. It’s a shame you didn’t win any of the three Oscars you were nominated for.”

  “Yes,” agreed Hannah. She pointed to the mantel. “There is a space right there in the middle that I was saving for one.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “It’s just so … empty looking, don’t you think?”

  Sophie replaced the Grammy on the mantel and moved over to two water color paintings on the wall. One was of a small blonde girl wearing a light blue sailor coat and a blue beret hat. Sophie read the signature. “J. Newman, 1958. Your mother?” she asked, turning to Hannah.

  “Yes. She painted that of me on Easter Sunday that year. I still remember it. The one below it is the one she did of Danny.”

  “He was so cute. How sad that he died young.”

  “Yes. And I’ve missed him every day since.”

  They sat down at the dining table, and Sophie turned on her recording device. “Since this is yours and John’s story, why not start with how the two of you met.”

  3

  September 1972:

  It was the beginning of a new school year at Performing Arts Academy and it was the school’s custom to hold an open house to give new and returning students a chance to meet and socialize. I liked to go and see who was new, who was returning. On this particular evening, I was walking toward the Student Social Center wearing a pair of those tight fitting knee high boots with high heels. Hooker boots, I think they’re called now, but then, they were the height of fashion. I noticed that someone was walking toward me and since the walkway became rather narrow at that point, I moved to the other side to let this person pass. Just then, someone on a bicycle came barreling past from behind. In trying to move out of his way, in those silly boots, I lost my footing and fell forward. Just as I was about to land on my face, a pair of hands caught hold of me and set me upright again. I looked up into the biggest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen, framed by long thick lashes. They were a beautiful aquamarine color and so bright, they shone like jewels. I only remembered to resume breathing when Mr. Blue Eyes shook me a little and said, “Hey. Hey there. You OK?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I told him. “You saved me, not only from possibly breaking my neck, but from extreme embarrassment and compound humiliation.” I saw then that the blue eyes belonged to a tall slender boy – well, young man, but just barely a man – he was 22, as he’d la
ter tell me. His hair was in soft reddish brown curls, one of which seemed to persist in falling a little onto his forehead. His full, shapely lips curved into a smile.

  “I’m John Eaton, at your service. Accompany me to the open house?” He then offered me his hand in a flamboyant gesture. He was so cute; I remember I had to suppress a giggle as I took it.

  “Hannah Newman and I’d be glad to. I hope you will accept my apology for throwing myself at you the way I did.”

  He laughed. “A girl with wit!” he said with a cock of his eyebrow. “I like that.”

  After the open house, John insisted on walking me back to my dorm and I saw no harm in giving him my phone number. In the following weeks, we both had a full schedule of classes, practices and rehearsals. We got together when we could a couple of times a week, either for lunch or dinner in the student cafeteria or for an hour’s break for a walk. He was a drama student from Washington, D.C. and I was a more than willing audience for his humorous takes on monologues by Lawrence Olivier, Lionel Barrymore and other legendary actors. At first, I thought of him only as someone cute and funny whose company I enjoyed, but more and more, I felt increasingly drawn to him. Sometimes, I would seek him out just to be with him.

  I didn’t realize just how much my feelings for him had deepened until the night we were going to a Halloween party. I stopped for him at his dorm because we had planned to go there together. When I arrived, his roommate, Greg Barnes, answered the door and told me that John had moved without notice and had left no forwarding address. Panicked, I interrogated him but he insisted he knew nothing. He even let me in the room and let me see John’s empty bed and all his belongings gone. Just as I was breaking into tears, John burst out of the closet, laughing. I was enraged. I flew at him, flailing and slapping at his chest and face. He was stunned for a minute, then grabbed my wrists and held them firmly. I screamed at him to let me go.