What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  “Well, damn, that’s a lot to pick from.” He chuckled and scanned her face silently for a moment. Her stomach danced. “I mean, not the fifties, that’s for sure,” he said, finally looking away.

  “Seriously?” she pressed, arguing so he wouldn’t notice her nerves. The world of men was easier when Alex was her only focus. Sure, she used to notice guys, talk to them, maybe even tell a joke or two, but she never had to worry about the vulnerability of wondering what they thought of her. Or the deeper question any inkling of an attraction ignited: Would she ever find someone she could care about as much as she’d loved him? It was easier to push them all away. “Of all the decades, you save the fifties? What, are you all about housewives, or was your mom born in the fifties or something?”

  “Ha. Well, yes, ma’am, she was, but that’s not why.” His speech patterns were slow and polite, like he’d practiced this exact conversation before.

  “Well, then—why? I’m seriously dying to know.” Hannah was starting to smile now, edging toward flirting, which was frightening as all get-out. This man was not just handsome but smart and had a touch of cockiness that could only be pulled off by someone wearing a tux he likely owned. This is when it would’ve been helpful to wear makeup or brush her hair or wear clothes that didn’t look like a sack.

  No, Hannah. Stop, she ordered herself. Focus.

  He shrugged. “TV was invented in the fifties.”

  “Television?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was raised on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Knight Rider, and He-Man.” He popped a large peppermint in his mouth and tucked the crinkly wrapper in his pocket. “Did you know She-Ra was He-Man’s sister?”

  Hannah fought a begrudging smile she tried to hide with a swipe of her hand. This man needed no encouragement.

  “That show was . . . before my time,” she said, moving to another row of pictures to keep herself from giving in to the blatant flirting being tossed her way by this charming and handsome man who smelled a little too good for her liking. “Anyway, you have a point with the TV thing. They say that’s why Vietnam was so unpopular. People got to see war up close and personal for the first time.”

  The man followed, and Hannah stopped paying full attention to the dates or images.

  “Well, that and how the press reported it.”

  “What?” she asked, turning around, not sure if she should be outraged or laugh.

  “You know, the Cronkite moment and the embedded journalist and—”

  “And you think that was wrong?” Outrage it was.

  “No, not wrong, just . . . fact,” he said, nonchalantly, almost arrogantly, ignoring her indignation. Her opinion of him was turning south, rapidly. A free press was the safeguard of democracy, damn it.

  “The way journalists documented and reported that war was revolutionary. Heroic. Arnett, Turner, Hodierne, Steinbeck . . .”

  “Whoa. Was your momma a journalist or something?” He echoed her earlier joke about the 1950s.

  She refused to laugh, still bristling at his comments. “No, I am,” she said, chin up in defiance.

  His smile dropped away and his hands came out of his pockets, and he stood to a full, dignified height of at least six one. The playful Romeo transformed into a no-nonsense businessman.

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” He took a step back and looked out into the main hall where the line of attendees had thinned to almost nonexistent.

  “Because you were too busy sharing your opinions on He-Man.” She followed him this time, his change in mood fascinating her. From flirt to recluse at the mention of her being a journalist. What was he hiding?

  “Well, that was off the record.”

  Hannah sniggered, expecting a joke, but he still seemed serious. She stepped even closer to the jittery man, whose pulse was beating so hard she could see it pumping through his jugular. Seeing a powerful man in a vulnerable position only made her want to ask more uncomfortable questions. She kind of liked seeing him squirm—it made her feel empowered in a strange way. Before, he was the pursuer. Now she was.

  “I’m not here to write a story about you. I’m here to write a story about this place,” she said, gesturing to the hand-carved crown molding and the polished oak floors. “So your eighties TV fetish can remain a secret. What, does your wife not know you’re here? Are you skipping work? Don’t worry, you can trust me. We are off the record, after all.”

  He cocked his head, and the corner of his mouth turned up, which caused a little line to crease up his cheek in a sexy, actor kind of way. No wonder this man was cocky. He’d been born with lottery-winning genes, and he knew it.

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  Hannah did a double take. Did she know who he was? He didn’t look like any famous person she’d been acquainted with. And if he were a local sports star, she would have zero chance of picking him out of a lineup. It didn’t help that she’d been in a pit of depression and avoidance for the past year, so even if he was someone she should know, like an Olympic medal winner or something, she’d never be able to tell.

  “Uh, should I?” She glanced around the room. “Am I missing something? Do you know me?”

  “I don’t think so, Miss . . .” He trailed off, giving her room to fill in the blank.

  “Williamson. I’m Hannah Williamson.” She put out her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Williamson.” He shook her hand. It was warm and a little damp, like his palms had been sweating inside his pants pockets.

  “Call me Hannah. And I’m sorry, but who are you?”

  “I’m Pete Dawson.”

  “Dawson?” The name in the box of records, the blurry faces. It couldn’t be a coincidence. She walked over to the wall of pictures and pointed to a black-and-white framed eight-by-ten of a woman wearing a wide collared dress with a blaze, hair cut neatly into a short, swept-back hairdo with a tight smile and what was likely fiery red lipstick, though it was hard to tell in the faded photograph. At the bottom was another one of those helpful plaques. This one read, Shelby Dawson.

  “Any relation?”

  “Yes. That’s my great-aunt.” He joined her again, more reserved but seemingly no longer worried that she was trying to mine information.

  “So, Jeffery Dawson was your great-grandfather?” she asked, putting the pieces together, fingers twitching for her notebook. She was finally making connections between her random dotted clues.

  “How do you know all these names?” he asked, watching her with interest.

  “I’m a journalist, remember?”

  “Yes, I’ve caught on to that.” He laughed at her again like he found her endlessly entertaining. He kept doing that. “But why do you know all these names?”

  “Because I’m writing a . . . a piece about this place. The hospital and school for . . .”

  “Peter, there you are.” An elderly woman being pushed in a wheelchair by a young, studious-looking female assistant stopped just outside the darkened lobby area. The woman in the chair had her silvery hair tied up in a French twist, and she wore an understated bluish-gray gown that covered her legs and threatened to catch up in the wheels of her chair.

  “Auntie Bee, don’t you look lovely,” he said, all graciousness and charm. He leaned over to kiss her cheek, and she kissed his back.

  “Oh, hush now. I’m far too old to be considered lovely.” She brushed away the compliment as she wiped away a smear of red lipstick on his cheek as he stood up. “Carrie and I have been looking for you everywhere, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the young woman confirmed on cue, like a doll with her string pulled.

  “I’m sorry, Auntie. Carrie.” Hannah watched Peter Dawson’s face, like he’d been doing with hers since she turned around and found him behind her. He loved his aunt; she was sure of that. His eyes were soft, and he didn’t seem annoyed by her rebuke. It reminded Hannah of how it felt to talk to Mamaw when she softly explained the rules of her house when Hannah had first moved in,
including the curfew she’d never even come close to breaking and the rules about “gentlemen callers”—also not an issue. But Peter’s auntie Bee was not the same as Mamaw in some ways, it seemed. She might have some of the polished, demure mannerisms of a well-bred southern aristocrat, but she gave off the power vibe of a businesswoman who knew what she wanted.

  “Jim Strickland is here. I gave him your introduction, but he wanted to see you for a few minutes before your speech. And Mark wants to go over some details with you—you know how Mark is . . . but your father swears by him.”

  “Mark is here?” he asked, looking at Carrie like they had some shared understanding about how terrible Mark was.

  “Yes, and you’ll keep your opinions to yourself for now, if you please. Both of you,” Auntie Bee said, pointing with a knobby index finger at the two much younger figures, who towered above her but also seemed to bow to her demands.

  “Yes, ma’am,” they both said in unison, and Hannah couldn’t stop a chuckle. Auntie Bee’s head snapped to the sound of her snort.

  She recognized the seated woman now, under the wrinkles of age and frailties of time and the polish of modern makeup and fashion.

  “You’re Shelby Dawson, aren’t you?” she asked with a touch of awe, reaching into her bag for her notebook, her brain exceeding its capacity to hold all the new information. She would have to be older than Mamaw, which seemed impossible, but Hannah knew she was right.

  “Peter, who is this woman?” she asked her nephew pointedly, not nearly as much like Mamaw as she’d thought. Not one friendly note, or any attempt at a pleasant greeting in her tone or stare. But Hannah had interviewed drug dealers and heads of state; she’d even shaken hands with a sitting president and had always hoped to one day ask the hard questions to the hardest people on the planet. Bee’s aggressive question only made the strong, journalist part of Hannah further ignite those low flames.

  “I’m Hannah Williamson, from the Chicago Tribune. I’m writing a story about—”

  “Are you talking to the press without Mark present?” Auntie Bee asked Peter with a quaver of anger in her voice.

  “No, no, it isn’t what you think. Hannah isn’t here to talk about the campaign . . .”

  The campaign? Hannah squinted at Peter, and then back at his aunt. Dawson. She thought she remembered a Senator Jack Dawson having some buzz for a potential presidential bid. Any press about him inevitably mentioned his father’s political pedigree as the governor of Tennessee at some point in an equally long career, but this Peter Dawson, closer to thirty than forty, was a new face to Hannah and must be part of his nepotistic staff.

  “Of course she is, Peter. You are too naive for your own good.” She gestured to Carrie. “Move me forward, child. And Peter, be a dear and turn on some lights in this room, would you?”

  Peter flicked on the lights, and the room, which turned out to be something of a museum or gallery, illuminated. Hannah tried to take in as many of the displays as possible. It was a history of the Dawson family’s charity, the one founded by Dr. Jeffery Dawson, the Safe Place. It was responsible for the Crippled Children’s Hospital and School and the Home for the Incurables during the polio outbreak that ravaged children and young adults through the greater half of the twentieth century.

  “What did you say your name was again? Let me see your credentials. I know Palmer at the Tribune. He should know better than this.”

  Shit. No. Maybe Maggie and the friendly receptionist she talked to at the Safe Place the day before wouldn’t call her ID in, but Ms. Shelby Dawson wouldn’t hesitate. And if she were talking about Tom Palmer, the editor in chief of the newspaper, it wouldn’t take much for him to share the truth about Hannah’s breakdown and crash at the paper. Not to mention that using her outdated ID was technically fraud. She rushed to clarify her motives.

  “Ms. Dawson, I’m here because I have questions about the Crippled Children’s Hospital and School that was housed in this facility starting in 1919. I promise, I have no interest in your nephew or your gala—”

  Ms. Dawson interrupted. “No interest in my great-nephew, huh? Do you buy that, Carrie?”

  “No, ma’am,” the young woman answered immediately, and Hannah couldn’t help but glare for half a second, before addressing Mr. Dawson again.

  “I swear. I don’t even know anything about—sorry, what was your name again? Peter?” Hannah bluffed forgetfulness, trying to drive her point home.

  “I guess I’m pretty forgettable, Auntie. Better tell Mark. Could be an issue with the constituents.” It irked Hannah that he wasn’t taking any of this seriously.

  “Honestly, Ms. Dawson, I didn’t even know this event was going on tonight. I was just down the road at the University of Memphis doing some research on an old story my grandmother told me, and while I was in town, I found this address, and I thought that I’d take a look at the hospital, ask a few questions, maybe look through old patient files. I’m looking for a woman who was a patient here in the 1930s. All I have is her first name . . . Evelyn—”

  “I’m sorry. Patient files are sealed. Now, Peter, we must go.” Shelby Dawson gestured for her assistant to move her chair toward the lobby.

  Hannah, panicking at losing this opportunity now that one of her leads had finally paid off, followed close behind. “But surely this long after a patient’s passing . . .”

  “Sealed means sealed, Ms. Williamson.” Shelby waved her off, and Peter Dawson sighed. His jovial nature became serious, like when he’d had the same suspicions about her intentions as his aunt. But this time, his displeasure was focused in a different direction.

  “Auntie,” he said, thoughtfully, following at a more measured pace than Hannah, “a story about the hospital could be beneficial in the long run, don’t you think? For our family. For . . . the campaign. I mean, the hospital is in district.”

  Ms. Shelby Dawson, nearly as ancient as the walls that surrounded them, held up her hand, bringing the wheelchair to a halt. She considered his words and with trembling hands retrieved a small silver compact from her pocket and a tube of ruby-red lipstick. She applied it correctly despite the movement in her extremities. As she rubbed her lips together and returned the items to her pocket, she stared at Hannah like her glare was as effective as a lie detector. Speaking to Peter, Ms. Dawson never took her eyes off the perceived intruder.

  “Peter, if you are so invested in this supposed story, have Ms. Williamson contact my office with her official information. We will confirm her identity and get her any other information or historical documents pertinent to the hospital. But no patient records. Understood?”

  Peter smiled at Hannah like he’d won her a stuffed animal as a prize at the fair, not knowing that her offer was no good to Hannah. She needed patient records—specifically one patient’s records. Besides, the need to confirm her identity was a requirement that would keep Hannah at arm’s length from the truth.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hannah said, crossing her hands in front of her body with her notebook clasped behind them, trying to look humble and resigned.

  “Good. Now Peter, we shouldn’t keep the mayor waiting,” Ms. Dawson called and gestured in the direction of the door the partygoers had disappeared through. Carrie rolled her toward the room. Peter hesitated.

  “Beg your pardon, Auntie, but can I have one additional moment with Miss Williamson?”

  She stared at him and then snuck a glance at Hannah, looking her up and down with a sour expression on her face, like she couldn’t see what a man might see in her. But then she sighed and muttered something about men before signaling to Carrie silently.

  “Thank you, Auntie,” he called out after her.

  “Don’t forget to turn off the lights in the museum, Peter.”

  “Yes, Auntie . . .”

  When she was far enough away to not be able to see, Peter rolled his eyes playfully at Hannah, like badass Shelby Dawson was an adorable toddler, but Hannah was grateful he asked to stay behind. She had so many q
uestions. She’d known the Dawson name had seemed familiar, but she hadn’t expected to stumble into a political dynasty.

  “So, you’re a part of this family—the Dawsons?”

  “Yup, born and raised,” he said, falling in step with Hannah.

  “So, wait—your dad is Jack Dawson? Like, Senator Jack Dawson?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, bobbing his head. “Yes, ma’am. He is.”

  “Like, four-term senator, presidential hopeful Jack Dawson?” Hannah asked, not sure if she should be suspicious, intimidated, or reluctantly charmed.

  “Uh-huh. You really didn’t know about this event, about me, did you?” he asked, like he found the idea novel, compelling. He cracked the peppermint in his mouth between his molars, close enough that the calming scent was reaching her nose with each breath. She forced herself to stay focused.

  “No idea.”

  “Hmm, well . . . that’s interesting,” he said, as they stopped by the door she’d entered not even half an hour earlier. He was watching her closely, like he wanted to memorize every reaction. It couldn’t have been easy to grow up in the shadow of his father and his grandfather, to have the pressure of a political pedigree.

  “So this is an event for him—the senator.”

  “I love how everyone calls him the senator like he’s the only one who exists,” Peter mused in passing as he rummaged through the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “Here.” He presented her with a business card, held between his pointer and middle fingers. Hannah took it and read the raised black letters on the front. The Tennessee state seal in gold was in the upper left-hand corner. It read:

  PETER J. DAWSON

  STATE SENATOR

  DISTRICT 30

  “Wait . . . so . . . this is . . . ,” she stuttered, putting the pieces together. Peter, son of Jack Dawson, grandson of Fred Dawson, was in the family business. This wasn’t Jack’s party to raise money for his presidential candidacy, after all.