Both jobs would be a definite promotion for her. She’d be working on “breaking news,” working out in the field and doing original reporting. But Laura had her heart set on Hourglass, even though there was no posted opening there. She knew full well that the job postings were often mere formalities. Executive producers usually decided who would staff their broadcasts before the mandatory job lists were posted.
By pitching the Palisades Park story to Joel Malcolm, she hoped she’d have won him over to considering her for the next Hourglass producer spot. It helped to have Gwyneth on her side, but, as Laura thought about it, Gwyneth had not pursued the idea of Laura joining the Hourglass staff as they exchanged Christmas gifts the night before.
11
THINKING ABOUT LAURA’S visit after a fitful night’s sleep, Gwyneth took a seat at her desk. Clad in an ice-blue silk dressing robe, she checked her e-mail from her apartment laptop computer. With two days until Christmas and much to do, she wanted to avoid going into the Broadcast Center if she could.
As she read the electronic message from Laura, Gwyneth felt the warmth of blood rising to her cheeks.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
RE: Research
I am working on a piece about the old Palisades Amusement Park. It’s been said that Palisades Park, which operated for nearly 75, years, reflected the popular culture of a changing nation.
If you know anyone with a good Palisades Park story to tell, please contact me.
How dare Joel give Laura the go-ahead to do the story! He’d promised the decision would wait until the new year.
Gwyneth logged off the computer and poured herself another cup of herbal tea from the silver pot that Delia had left on the library’s refectory table. As she sipped, she tried to organize the thoughts running through her head. Her rage at Joel only grew as she pondered his betrayal—although she knew, when confronted, Joel would deny that he’d broken his word to her. From Joel’s point of view, giving Laura the okay to work on the story was in the best interests of Hourglass and therefore in the best interests of Gwyneth. That was always the rationalization he used with her as he maneuvered to inevitably get his own way.
But no more, Joel, Gwyneth thought, a triumphant look in her blue eyes as she stared out at snow-covered Central Park. You won’t be getting your way with me anymore.
She’d been feeling guilty and full of trepidation, not wanting to tell Joel her news. However, in the face of Joel’s latest outrage, Gwyneth now thought she’d take some real satisfaction in seeing the look on his handsome face when she told him she was leaving.
Leaving KEY News, leaving Hourglass, leaving him.
She felt momentarily satisfied. Joel had hurt her, and soon she would hurt him. But her satisfaction quickly gave way to dread. As she remembered that KEY News would soon be putting its considerable resources into an investigation of the final days of Palisades Amusement Park, beneath her silk robe Gwyneth felt a bead of cold perspiration trickle down her side.
Decisively, she reached for the telephone and dialed Joel’s direct line.
“Just a few days before Christmas, and this is the gift you give me, you son-of-a-bitch!”
Joel winced at the venom in Gwyneth’s hiss as he clutched the telephone receiver. “Gwyneth, sweetheart, I can explain.”
“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me, you pathetic liar. You promised that we’d decide together, after the holidays, about that Palisades Park story, and you just went ahead and did what you pleased. That’s the story of your life, doing what Joel wants. The big executive producer always gets his way.”
“That is how the system works, baby.”
“Well, I’m sick of it. What about keeping the talent happy? Now, there’s a concept you haven’t thought about lately.”
Joel paused for an instant, considering which tack to take. Should he show her who the boss was, or should he try to appease her?
“Come on, Gwyneth. What’s the big deal?” he implored, choosing appeasement over confrontation. “I just told Laura to continue her research.”
“With you so high on the story, that’s tantamount to giving her a green light, and we both know it,” Gwyneth answered angrily.
“Does this mean that Kitzi and I are off the guest list for your New Year’s Eve party?”
“Do whatever you damn well please,” Gwyneth answered curtly. She slammed down the phone, knowing very well that Joel would show up for the party. He’d probably come bearing some sort of peace offering, confident that he could make things right.
But not this time. In fact, she had a little surprise ready for him, too. After this, she would take satisfaction in telling him her news. His beloved Hourglass, his creation and life’s work, would soon be without its star.
12
RETIRED SCHOOLTEACHER MAXINE Dzieskanowski Bronner looked forward to Laura’s Christmas Eve visit tomorrow as she had each year for the last twenty. She remembered the first time the little eight-year-old Laura had come to the Bronner house on Lafayette Avenue. It had been just a month after her mother had died.
Laura’s father was not taking the death of his wife well. He was drinking heavily, not going to work and crying all the time. Maxine knew all this because Laura had told her. Not verbally, but in her journal.
The third graders that Maxine taught at Epiphany School came to class each day, unpacked their book bags and wrote in their journals the first thing every morning. Mrs. Bronner would give a prompt each day. What will you be when you grow up? What is your favorite spot in the house? Describe your family. What are your plans for the summer? Or the young students had free choice: they could write anything they chose, anything that was on their minds.
It was through the journal that Maxine had witnessed a little girl’s loss of her mother.
In September, Laura wrote that her mommy had been sick all summer and had to go to the doctor all the time. In October, her mommy was going to the hospital for treatments, treatments that made her throw up and lose her yellow hair. Mommy said the treatments would make her better. By November, Mommy told Laura that the medicine wasn’t working after all.
Maxine’s students were aware of what was going on. Part of the journal experience was reading to the class what they had written. No one was forced to, but when the teacher asked the class, “Who would like to share?” Laura’s hand would spring up.
The other kids tried to console her.
“Your mother will get better.”
“Don’t worry, Laura.”
“My uncle was sick, too, but he got well.”
But as Thanksgiving grew close and the class was learning about the Mayflower and Plymouth Rock and the Pilgrims and the Indians, Laura wrote in her journal that she was sleeping with her mommy each night so she could be close to her. After her father fell asleep beside his wife, Laura would sneak into their double bed to snuggle next to her mother, to feel the warmth of her thin body, to listen to the sound of her breathing.
Mommy didn’t sleep that well, but she never minded that Laura wasn’t acting like a big girl and sleeping in her own bed. She would gather her daughter in her arms and stroke her golden hair and whisper that everything was going to be all right. And in those moments in the dark, safe and warm next to her mother, Laura felt that everything would.
But the last night, Laura wrote, Mommy didn’t wake up when Laura came in to curl beside her. Mommy’s breathing sounded funny as her chest moved up and down. She tried to wake Daddy, but he didn’t budge. She knew that he had been drinking a lot of beer after dinner, and when he did that, it was useless to try to wake him.
So she had lain there, her arms wrapped around her mother, clinging to the person who made her feel safe, the person she loved most in all the world. And Laura prayed that God would make her mother well.
She heard the cuckoo clock chirp in the downstairs hallway and she lay there in the dark, praying. And then she heard the bird sing again. Right after that, Mom
my’s chest rose one last time.
Maxine’s heart had ached as she followed Laura’s story and she had tried to do what she could to help the little girl. She had put her arm around the child and told her, “We’re always here.” Laura had cried in her teacher’s arms.
In that first Christmas season after Mrs. Walsh’s death, with all the hurt so fresh, it had taken all Maxine had not to cry herself in front of the child. The school Christmas concert went on, the kids sang Christmas carols, Santa Claus came to the classroom and gave out candy canes to each child and Laura had participated as best she could. A brave little soldier in front of the other children.
When the school bell rang out signaling the end of another day, Laura would linger in the classroom. She did not want to go home to the house she had lived in all her life, the house on Grant Avenue, the house without Mommy. Daddy was home, but that was little comfort. She was afraid of how she would find him.
So she stayed after school, and Maxine would find jobs for Laura to do. Erase the blackboard, help decorate the bulletin board, tack class projects on the wall. As the last days before the holiday vacation approached, Maxine got up the courage to ask Laura what she and her dad were doing for Christmas.
Laura hung her head. “Daddy says we aren’t having Christmas this year.”
“Because of Mommy?”
Laura nodded.
“Do you think Mommy would want you to have Christmas, even though she isn’t with you?” asked Maxine gently.
Laura thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know,” she answered uncertainly.
“Well, Laura, this is a very difficult time for your father. I can understand that he doesn’t want to celebrate now. But how would you like it if I asked him if you and he could come over to my house on Christmas Eve? We have a special celebration and we do many things that my family have done for years and years. It would be a different kind of Christmas for you.”
The little girl brightened.
That night, Maxine called Emmett Walsh. She could tell by his slurred speech that he had been drinking, but when she extended the Christmas Eve invitation, she was encouraged, in a way, by his response.
“I know Laura should have a Christmas, but I just can’t make one for her. I don’t deserve one. But she does.”
“Of course you deserve one. You aren’t responsible for your wife’s death.”
“She didn’t die peacefully. That was because of me.” Over the phone line, Maxine could hear him slurp another swig of beer.
She did not know what he meant, but she did not feel it was her place to ask more.
“Mr. Walsh, perhaps you should talk to Father Ryan. Maybe he could help you come to terms with everything that has happened.”
“I’m not too big on religion right now, Mrs. Bronner. In fact, I’m quite pissed off at God.”
“Well, that, of course, is up to you, Mr. Walsh. But Laura is an innocent child and I know you want what is best for her. Won’t you please come for Christmas Eve?”
That was how it started. The first few years, Emmett Walsh came with his daughter to the Bronners’ house the night before Christmas. After that, Laura came on her own.
An only child, Laura loved the big family celebration. Alan Bronner was a warm, generous man who clearly loved his “Max” and their two children, Danielle and Justin. Aunts, uncles and cousins filled the house, gathering to celebrate the Wigilia, the biggest Polish family feast day of the year.
As dusk gathered, Mrs. Bronner placed a candle in the front window. She explained to Laura that this was once believed to help the spirits of family ancestors find their way “home” for the Wigilia.
“Do you think my mommy will find me here?” Laura asked quietly that first year.
Maxine pulled the child close. “Laura, I truly believe your mother is here in spirit, loving you very much. She did everything she could to stay with you and I know she did not want to leave you. But it was her time to pass on, to go to live in heaven with God. I know she wants you to be happy and enjoy your life and all the wonderful things that are in store for you.”
“Like tonight?”
The poor child is asking permission to enjoy herself, Maxine thought.
“Yes, especially tonight.”
Maxine took Laura’s hand and led her into the dining room. Pulling back the corner of the heavily starched white linen tablecloth, Maxine showed the child the straw that had been laid beneath it.
“Hay and straw are the symbols of the birth of Jesus in the stable, Laura. When the first star appears in the sky, we can begin our celebration.”
Laura thought about that. “What if there is no star? What if it’s too cloudy?”
Maxine laughed. “Then we begin at six o’clock.”
But that night, there was a star. The family and guests stood around the table to break and share the optalek, the sacred bread that, Mrs. Bronner explained to Laura, was similar to the liturgical water used as the sacred Host at Mass. Instead of the Host’s round shape, the optalek was a rectangle and was embossed on one side with a Christmas motif. For Poles, it symbolized the strengthening of bonds between peoples.
Laura solemnly ate her piece of the wafer and then took her seat next to her father at the table. She was relieved that Daddy had not been drinking that day. In fact, she noticed that when Mrs. Bronner asked what he would like to drink, Daddy had asked for a ginger ale.
Maybe things were going to get better.
13
IN THE DAYS before her mother died, eight-year-old Laura had been put to bed early, but she had not slept. The familiar bedroom with its multicolored candy-striped wallpaper and single twin-canopy bed, the “princess” bed, Mommy called it, the happy, cozy place where so many nighttime stories had been lovingly told, became a darkened, frightening chamber. During the daytime, there had been school and her teacher, Mrs. Bronner, and Brownies and play dates. At night, however, when all the day’s activities were over, Laura would lie in her small bed alone, to think and worry.
She had known something was wrong, though everyone tried to act as if everything were all right when she was around.
Daddy hadn’t known that she’d seen him crying in his big red chair late at night. He’d thought she was in bed asleep. But she wasn’t. She was up and creeping around. That was how she found out everything.
Laura, ever the little trouper, had acted as though nothing were amiss. She would chatter through supper, telling Emmett everything that had happened in Mrs. Bronner’s classroom each day, careful not to look at the empty chair at the table. Mommy’s place. She had acted as if it were not at all strange that Mommy was upstairs in bed at dinnertime, instead of at the kitchen table eating meat loaf with her husband and daughter. Laura drank all her milk and ate all her peas and hoped that being a good girl would make everything all right.
Laura had also pretended not to notice that Daddy was drinking even more than usual.
For as long as she could remember, Daddy drank from the red-and-white cans. Mommy usually didn’t say anything, but Laura could tell that her mother was keeping track of the “red-and-whites” piled up in the trash can each day. “Emmett, that’s enough, honey,” she’d say. Usually, Daddy would stop.
With Mommy unable to keep watch now, Daddy didn’t stop. He drank more and more. He slurred his words. He smelled like beer. Sometimes he’d stumble and fall when he got up from his chair.
One night, Laura said, “Daddy, that’s enough, now.” And her father hit her. After that, Laura pretended not to notice as she heard one beer can after another pop open.
Somehow, even in her little girl’s mind, Laura had known that her father had not meant to hit her. He loved her. She knew it. She excused him because she knew that Daddy was worried about Mommy.
She knew because she had heard him. When her parents thought she was safely sound asleep in her room, blond, wispy-haired Laura stood in the hallway outside her parents’ door and listened to their hushed voices.
“Oh, Sarah, what will I do without you?” Daddy cried.
“Shh, sweetheart, shh. I’m so sorry, so sorry. But you have to be strong, you have to go on, for our little girl, for Laura.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You must. But, Emmett, you’ve got to stop drinking. Promise me you’ll get help.”
Laura heard her father whimper and it scared her. If Mommy was leaving her, all she’d have was Daddy, and he was falling apart. Daddy, who she’d always thought was so big and strong. Daddy, whom she’d have to depend on to make everything all right. Daddy, who was sobbing.
“Promise me, Emmett. You have to tell someone. Unburden yourself. You’ll never be able to stop drinking with what happened nagging at your conscience. You have to stop feeling guilty and own up to it. Admit to what happened. It was an accident. Go to the police. Confess.”
Laura knew what “confess” meant. She had made her First Holy Communion that year—and along with it, her first confession, the other sacrament, Penance. She had had trouble coming up with things to tell the priest, things that would be considered sins.
She stood in her flannel pajamas and bare feet, and wondered, What did Daddy do that Mommy is so worried about?
Twenty years later, a childhood and adolescence of secrets and physical abuse behind her, Laura still did not know what her mother had been whispering about. But her forehead carried a constant reminder of her father’s sickness and inability to control himself.
14
DR. LEONARD COSTELLO finished his rounds at Mt. Olympia Hospital with a heavy heart. But it was not his last patient, a teenage girl who had been knifed in the face by some lunatic in Central Park, that left him feeling bereft. When he was done with her, several operations and many thousands of dollars later, she might even look better than she had before.
Costello walked slowly down the hospital hallway, the antiseptic scent of recently cleaned linoleum filling the air. Nurses hurried down the hall, their crepe-soled shoes squeaking. Doctors’ names crackled over the PA system. But Costello was only faintly aware of the activity around him. He was thinking of his conversation with Gwyneth Gilpatric and it was deeply troubling him.
Let Me Whisper in Your Ear Page 4
