Hot Mic!

by Jamie Collins

  Marney wiped a tear that had already slipped from her cat-lined eye. “It is what I do. Really, Hannah, this is such a sweet deal. What can I say? They wanted you. Apparently, you were part of the producer’s vision from the start.”

  Hannah took a deep breath and then reached to embrace Marney with trembling arms. “Thank you,” she said, and then pulled a serious frown. “Do you think we should have asked for more?”

  The two women broke into laughter and then hugged some more.

  “You know, you’re going to have to put those heels back on. Television is a visual medium!” Marney said, popping the cork and pouring out two generous cups full of the pricey champagne and handing one out to Hannah. “Here’s to that bright future of yours, Hannah. Here’s to you! You are going to be one busy bitch!” She howled.

  Hannah took a sip and smiled. What had she done?

  Marney rattled on, “They are looking to do the official signing as a group once they have the other cast members chosen. It will be at the end of August, with the pilot kicking off in the fall. Now we will have another wonderful announcement to reveal at your sweet-sixty party!” Marney proclaimed, raising up the red cup. “Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy—one of the newest divas of daytime talk!”

  Hannah’s heart pounded. There would be no backing out once she signed.

  Marney was an unstoppable train. “Not a word about this to anyone, okay? Let me work out all the details with the rest of the promotional team.” She grinned. There was an offer from Ricon Broadcasting out of Toronto currently pending that would work nicely as a ruse. Marney would continue to let them think they had a shot. It would block the news from leaking and keep the press at bay. “Didn’t I tell you that you were going to explode, Hannah? This is it—this gig with Global Network is the opportunity of a lifetime, and it is going to boost your career to even greater heights.” Marney then planted a lipstick imprint onto Hannah’s cheek. “It’s your time, sweetie.”

  Hannah felt as dizzy as the bubbles dancing in the cup. What did she know about television? Marney was going to have to be certain enough for both of them.

  Chapter 43

  August 13, 2015

  The boy with the ruddy cheeks had grown into a sullen, insidious teen who thought himself to be invincible. He had them all fooled. Every last one of them. From rudimentary and polite appearances at family gatherings to acing the Dean’s List, he was a tenth-grader who had perfected the art of pleasing adults and blending in.

  He was a quiet genius with eccentric interests: World War II movies, sci-fi graphic novels, physics brainteasers, and computer gaming. He was a whiz with anything electronic. He was especially adept at computer programming. He thought nothing of applying his brilliant talents to the task of manipulating and hacking files, just for fun.

  He started off with the small stuff, in junior high, innocent “pranks,” in which he crafted clever ploys for besieging unknown hosts with innocently cloaked computer viruses that arrived innocuously on various hard drives in email boxes throughout the country under various aliases that, when opened, ultimately kicked out damaging directives that wiped out entire days, weeks, months of data. Or, in some cases, shutting down the host’s computer completely, causing permanent and irrefutable damage to the users’ hard drive.

  When Sun Printing suffered an all-company network shutdown for five straight days last October due to a terminal computer virus, it drove the company into full-scale crisis. When the company president appeared four weeks later on the evening news, declaring financial ruin, and stating that the business was being forced to close its doors after twenty-three years, it was he who took the bow from his secret den of destruction—a teenager’s bedroom somewhere in obscurity. A room that was strewn throughout with unopened text books, black-lit concert posters, sweat socks, and propagandist magazines hid discreetly under a bed with faded Star Wars sheets, along with enough ammunition and explosives concealed in duffel bags and backpacks to blow away an entire city block and the people he hated.

  Which was exactly what he intended to do.

  Chapter 44

  May 2015

  Hannah had agreed to meet with Peter when he had said that he wanted to discuss a few things, namely, their daughter, Olivia. Hannah knew that she need not worry about him changing the conditions of the language in the divorce settlement because it was ironclad. Olivia would remain in Hannah’s custody, as per the agreement awarding Peter specified visitation time of every other weekend during the school year, various holidays, and two full weeks over summer break.

  Peter’s relationship with his daughter was solid. In fact, he often spent time with her to make up for the fact that he and Hannah worked such demanding schedules that often left Olivia either shuffled from sitters and nannies, or dragged along to client meetings and sessions. Her siblings were much older, and particularly when Broderick left the house to start school in Arizona, Olivia was relegated to being an only child, so to speak. By the time she was in middle school, she was basically a latchkey kid, who became quite proficient at taking care of herself. To make up for a myriad of guilt-laden decisions on both of their parts, Hannah and Peter tried to indulge their daughter any way they could. It was nothing for Peter to show up with tickets for a ski-weekend in Aspen for some father-daughter bonding time, knowing full well that Hannah could not join them due to the restrictions of her show schedule. This, she’d felt, Peter used to his advantage, as he was quickly becoming the “nice” or “buddy” parent, which infuriated Hannah. Wasn’t it she who would often rightfully counsel her listeners and patients to avoid this “over giving” of material possessions in exchange for a child’s love? Still, it was Peter who reveled in treating Olivia to a trip to Vancouver for the Winter Olympics when she was ten; and later, to a Taylor Swift concert on her thirteenth birthday in Denver, complete with backstage passes at the Pepsi Center. He bought her every electronic device—somehow managing to be first in line at the Apple store to the get the newest gadget, which he would have promptly downloaded with all of her favorite music. Hannah simply could not compete with his fly-in-and-fly-out schedule that would have him whisking Olivia away to a different city every other weekend, or on some fun adventure that decidedly left her behind, albeit the trips had steadily begun to diminish as of late. Either way, Hannah secretly resented him for it.

  What in the world could he want to talk about? Hannah had wondered on the drive into the city to meet with Peter at a bristling pub in the Arts District. He had been virtually silent since leaving the letter three months earlier, like a coward, just days after their thirty-eighth anniversary—the letter telling her that his heart had no love for her, that he loved a man, and that he couldn’t stay. Since then, the communication had been limited to the pricey quarter-hour calls and emails and texts from the lawyers. Cold, impersonal language about the sorting out of a lifetime together regarding real estate, china place settings, bank holdings, and scheduled visits with the minor child, Olivia Murphy.

  It was all she could do to keep it together a while longer, before the news of their divorce would be made public and she would then have the shame and pity of all of America—right on the heels of her syndicate contract renewal and debut television appearance on The Gab. She would fight to hold her head high and serve as a beacon for all women everywhere who have had to carry the unspeakable burden of divorce. She would know how they felt. How they carried their pain throughout their daily lives, as they would go about the business of being good mothers, citizens, and friends. This would be her task and calling. It would be the platform by which she would help others like herself find their way back to themselves—to heal.

  When she arrived, Peter was standing to greet her, looking frazzled and exhausted. His chestnut hair had grayed significantly in the past several months, or maybe she hadn’t noticed until now. His eyes were solemn, and with the five-o’clock shadow covering his sallow skin, he looked for the firs
t time in her recollection, disheveled.

  “What’s going on?” Hannah said coolly, and she took the seat across from him at a booth near the window. She was all business.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  The waiter appeared and asked if she wanted a drink.

  “Rosé,” Peter said before she could answer. Then he checked himself. “That is, if that is what you want to drink,” he said, gripping the bottle of imported beer, his once-steady surgeon’s hands sweating nervously.

  “Rosé is find, thank you,” Hannah said, settling in.

  The waiter left, and she leaned forward, to sit a bit taller. “So, you wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”

  Peter gave a little sniff. She was ever the pushy show host. The caller only got fifteen seconds to lay out the request or problem at hand. Why should this be any different? He began, “I do want to talk to you about Olivia, but first you need to know how I got here—how we got here. That is, if you want to know.”

  Hannah’s drink arrived, and she took a slow sip and thought better of burying her head or walking away. It would not be easy to hear, but she needed to know.

  “Okay,” she said. “I am listening.”

  Chapter 45

  Brentwood, TN

  Being Peter Murphy was never the stuff of heroes or handsome leading men-types that they make Lifetime movies about or showered with accolades for humanitarian contributions to the world and works of selfless love and peace. Instead, he had managed to stay just under the radar all his life, preferring instead, to blend into the background and keep his nose to the grindstone, even after discovering that he had a unique and sharp mind that few rivaled. By age sixteen he had already been “placed ahead” in school two levels at the prestigious college-preparatory academy that his parents worked tirelessly in the family business to provide their firstborn and only son every advantage in life. As long as Peter could remember, all he wanted to do was to be a cardiologist and fix what was broken. A heart attack had blindsided his paternal grandfather when Peter was six, and he had never forgotten the pledge he had made to himself to become a doctor. It was really the only goal he could recall ever having—and he intended to reach it. It was as simple as that.

  Ingrid and Jamison Murphy were Peter’s immigrant parents. They had emigrated to the U.S. when they were both young children. Ingrid’s parents were from Warsaw and Jamison’s from Dublin, both fleeing the perils of violence and oppression for the shores of America, where they found work in the Depression-ravished tobacco and cotton crops in North Carolina, where both of their families had settled. It was there that the two met as children. In order to make a living, families at that time needed to use all available children to work alongside them in the fields, so Ingrid and Jamison worked dutifully with their families in the hot sun. Some years later, Jamison’s family started growing food crops with the help of the government. The women in their coterie then learned the skill of canning, which served to revitalize and further secure the immigrant families’ livelihoods. This ultimately allowed Ingrid and Jamison to eventually be able to go to school and to trade the fieldwork for schoolbooks. They had known each other all of their lives, first working side by side in the improvised fields, and later learning arithmetic, and playing in the dirt piles made by relief workers laboring to rebuild the new roads into town. The two knew little about life in a New World, except for what they discovered together and were able to make for themselves. At eighteen, having fallen in love, they got married, and left the Carolina farm life for the lure of urban expansion, and headed westward to Nashville.

  In 1945 Jamison sank all he had into a roadside business selling handcrafted woodwork items that he had made, keeping to the basics with sturdy-backed stools, chairs, and rocking cradles for infants that were crafted as beautiful as they were practical. Soon, the demand for his handiwork enabled the young couple to save enough money to purchase a small lean-to shack that served as a small storefront in which Jamison could sell his wares. The young couple slept on a cot in the back, while Ingrid cleaned the homes of Nashville’s elite and came home to cook on a rickety coal stove that brought warmth and sustenance to their lives. Within seven years, they had been blessed with a mortgage on a small brick storefront with an attached apartment and the miracle of a little one of their own on the way, after fearing that they were infertile. Due to complications with the birth, however, Peter would be their one and only child. Still, he was their one special blessing. He was perfect in every way, and to his loving parents, the promise of more than just an American dream—he held the key to their very legacy, and upon his little shoulders, they heaped every expectation and hope that they could for his success and happiness.

  By the time Peter was twelve, the family furniture business had grown in scale, and the Murphys had begun to make a name for themselves, attracting buyers from as far away as Chicago. Eventually, the Murphy name would come to grace over twenty-five store franchises in neighboring cities throughout the South as well as across the state.

  Growing up with the incessant expectations of his immigrant parents, Peter knew that his success in life meant more than anything—to them. He rarely allowed himself the normal comforts and distractions of childhood that his friends were enjoying. In 1966, when boys his age were becoming acquainted with the TV series Batman, watching as “Mean” Joe Greene dominated college football at the University of Texas, and ogling American sex symbol Raquel Welch on the big screen, Peter was marveling at groundbreaking news on the medical front of surgeon Dr. Michael De Bakey, who implanted an artificial heart into the chest of a coal miner. Peter Murphy was, it seemed, anything but an average kid.

  Peter’s freshman year of high school brought to light further talents that Ingrid and Jamison reveled in bragging about. It seemed that Peter was quite the natural swimmer. He had speed, power, and a freestyle stroke that broke records at every junior varsity swim meet he participated in. Surprisingly, he enjoyed the sport and found the competition to be a natural rush. Quickly, early-morning and mid-day workouts became his daily routine, further isolating him from his peers and placing him on-par with the upperclassmen elite and varsity coaches who were the only ones pounding drills at six a.m.

  He loved the feel of the water streaming along his body and the way that the training had strengthened his biceps, back, and pectoral muscles. By age seventeen, he had developed into a chiseled, lean athlete, having grown three inches, cinching winning lead after winning lead that left his competition trailing behind him. Everyone noticed the change in his demeanor and confidence. It was also remarkably fulfilling for him to challenge and push himself to greater heights. Finally, he had found something other than academics at which to excel. Even his parents backed his verve for the sport and lauded his many wins, proudly boasting and displaying his state medals on the walls of their flagship store.

  One person, in particular, who had been instrumental in Peter’s training and development was Tory Robinson, the school’s swim coach. Tory was a whiz with the student athletes, and treated each one of them as if they were Olympians. It was his way to be friendly but firm with them in guiding them to big wins for the school. One of the things that drew students to Tory was the casual, relatable way that he talked to teens, never condescending like so many of the teachers and adults grappling with the weight of the world upon them, so it seemed. Tory was down-to-earth, and Peter liked that about him. Socially awkward in every other situation, Peter felt strangely secure and content when he swam. It was his solace and his salvation—those early-morning laps at the pool, just him and Tory’s whistle drills, cheering him on.

  Hannah had not ever remembered Peter mentioning having been a swimmer in his high school years. She had only ever known him to play Lacrosse in college—and quite well. “You’ve never mentioned this,” Hannah said with as little judgment as she could manage, and fearing what was to come next.

  Peter paused, and swallowed h
ard. “It didn’t take him long to single me out and take advantage. That is what he did. He took advantage of me.” His voice trailed off and Hannah painfully reached for Peter’s hand across the table, letting him tell his truth.

  “What happened?”

  “He invited me over to his ‘pad’ he called it. I innocently agreed. We were going to watch some swimming tapes of my last meet. He said that he would slip me a beer. That it would be our secret.” Peter’s eye twitched like it did when he was feeling anxious, and his lip began to quiver. “I wanted him to think I was cool. You know, that I could be down with that.”

  “Instead?” Hannah coaxed.

  “Instead, he came on to me not two seconds after I walked into his apartment and he shut the door. He reached for me. He touched me.” Peter said the words plainly, just as a tear escaped from his right eye. He quickly caught it before it rolled all the way down his cheek to his chin. “I pushed him hard and threw him off of me. I called him a fucking faggot and bolted out of there. I ran all the way back to my car.”

  “What did you do then?” Hannah asked. “Where did you go?”

  “I went home. I walked past my parents in the living room like nothing had happened, and I went up to my bedroom. I laid on the floor there next to my bed, then crawled into the bathroom, doubled over with pains stabbing me in the gut. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die. And do you know why?”

  Hannah shook her head pensively.

  “Here’s the thing. I wanted him to do it. I did. Only I couldn’t admit that to myself. I couldn’t accept it. Not then. I lived a lie from that day forward. Every time the subject ever came up, I was the one with the homophobic retorts and flexing my muscles to the world, and years later, holding up my perfect wife and family for the entire world to see, while all the time, denying the truth. I would just end up on some bathroom floor somewhere and writhe in real physical pain. And worse than all of that was the fact that I couldn’t admit it to myself, and I took you and the family on that ride with me.”