The Echo of Old Books(110)

TWENTY


MARIAN

Reading brings us unknown friends.

—Honoré de Balzac

November 2, 1984

Boston, Massachusetts

I pat my hair again, finger the single strand of pearls at my throat, wishing I felt steadier. Last night’s conversation with Ashlyn kept me tossing and turning until the wee hours. Not what one needs before an ordeal of this sort. It would seem my great-nephew has chosen a woman with a head on her shoulders—and one whom I suspect has endured her share of heartache.

After forty-three years, my secret is out. I have deprived a man I once loved of his son. There was no judgment in her face as I told her my story, only sincere empathy. A rare quality, that, but what she asked of me is impossible. To forgive after so many years, to simply let go. For my sake, she said. But how can it be for my sake? After so many years of clinging to my grief, I’m not sure I know how to live without it. Still, her words linger in a rather inconvenient way as I join Ilese and the girls at our table near the stage.

I feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. The ballroom is uncomfortably warm, thick with a miasma of liquor, hairspray, and designer perfume. Or maybe it’s the restless hum of conversation filling all that space that has my nerves strung so tight. It sounds like a hive of angry bees, ready to swarm. My instinct is to flee, but it’s too late for that.

Dinner has been cleared away and the dessert served, a sign that the speeches are about to begin. A banner with the words CHILDREN’S WELFARE NETWORK HONORS MARIAN MANNING hangs above the stage. I reach for my wine, then think better of it and sip my water instead. I’m going to need all my wits if I’m going to get up there in front of everyone.

My hands are hot and sticky. I hate these things. Having to truss myself into an evening dress so I can be paraded about as some sort of saint. But it’s good exposure for the foundation, so I put up with it when I have to.

I hear my name echo through the mic. There’s a startling burst of applause. I push to my feet and mount the steps to the stage. A woman in gold lamé is standing at the podium, Gwendolyn Halliday, president of the CWN. She smiles and presses the award into my hands.

It’s surprisingly heavy, a globe fashioned of frosted glass meant to look like the Earth, with my name inscribed on a square of polished blue marble. There are flashbulbs, the sound of shutters clicking, clicking. The press. Always the press.

I look out at the sea of faces, all waiting for me to say something profound. I wish I had written something out on cards, but I never seem to use them when I do, or I get them all out of order, and so I decided not to bother. Oh well.

Ilese and the girls are smiling proudly. They look beautiful in their new dresses with their hair pinned up in little curls. Lida is waving up at the stage excitedly. I wave back and blow her a kiss. “Hello, Lida!”

The audience laughs. I feel myself relax and I open my mouth to speak. I hate the sound of my voice in the high-ceilinged room, but I smile and say the right things. I thank them and they beam. I make a self-deprecating remark about my failings as a public speaker and they titter. I speak earnestly about the importance of finding families for displaced children around the globe and they nod vigorously.

And then a face jumps out at me from the crowd. A man, standing against the back wall. Tall, angular, dark. He isn’t nodding. Isn’t smiling. But his eyes are locked on me. All these years later, I would know him anywhere.

The room sways and narrows to a pair of dark pinpoints. For a moment, I think my legs will give way and I imagine the headline in tomorrow’s social section: Philanthropist Marian Manning Collapses at Dinner Held in Her Honor. I manage to stay on my feet long enough to wrap up my remarks. There’s the dull thrum of applause as I leave the stage, but it’s strangely muted, as if I’ve been plunged underwater.

Ilese frowns as I sink down into my chair and dab delicately at the sheen of perspiration along my upper lip. She asks me if I’m all right, remarks that I look shaky. I nod and make myself smile. But all I can think is, Thank god Zachary couldn’t make it tonight.

Thank god. Thank god.

The girls want to see my award. I hand it to Mila and let them pass it back and forth until Ilese hisses for them to sit back in their chairs and behave. There’s a woman talking now, a tall woman in a ruffled yellow dress that reminds me of daffodils. I pretend to listen, but her words are garbled, indistinguishable.

I clap when the others clap, nod when the others nod, and sneak a look now and then to the back of the room. Still there. Still watching me. The girls are antsy, ready to go now that Mimi—they call me Mimi—has finished her talk. The women are beginning to gather their handbags and wraps. The men are folding their napkins and glancing toward the exits. Things are wrapping up. I’m relieved. And terrified.

There’s a final round of applause; then a rush of people are heading in my direction. They surround me, offering congratulations and shaking my hand. Ilese leans in and kisses me on the cheek, says the girls have had enough and she needs to put them to bed. She’ll see me for breakfast in the morning. And then she’s gone, leaving me to my crowd of well-wishers.

I manage to smile and say the right things, to be gracious and grateful, but all the time I’m peering over heads and between faces, praying he’ll be gone. Three glimpses later, he’s still there, waiting me out as the crowd steadily thins. Eventually, it’s just a handful of hangers-on. The waiters have begun to clear the tables. There’s nothing to do but get it over with. I tuck my handbag under my arm, pick up my award, and head for the doorway.