The Concealers (7 page)

She went back up, sat down at the tiny bistro table, fired up her Mac, and Googled obituaries for Lawrence M. Manning, realizing she had never even known her father's rank. After exhausting that thread on several dead ends, and prompted by the Navy SEALs documentary, she typed in Operation Golden Pheasant—Honduras—1988. While the results provided considerable detail, they yielded nothing about Airman Manning nor his unit from Plattsburgh, New York.

After another two hours of exploring leads and getting nowhere, Katherine felt like she was lost in a corn maze, desperate to find her way out—time for a walk in the park. Hailey was happy to get out, too. It was midday, the tents were up, and the crowds were milling around the park—a sight that always helped clear Katherine's head and made her feel better. Katherine browsed the display of mushrooms in one tent; racks of fresh, organic whole wheat bread in another; apples, peaches, plums and other fresh fruit in the next, delighting in the smells and sights. An impromptu quartet was singing in one corner across the street from Barnes & Noble, while a magician was performing on the east side of Union Square. Lots of people were walking their dogs. The smell of fresh flowers was in the air.

As Katherine tagged along behind Hailey, it hit her. What about the Plattsburgh Air Force Base personnel files? Why hadn't she tried that?

She raced back to her apartment, pursued that lead, and once again, came up empty. But she had a hunch: what if former Plattsburgh personnel communicated with each other, to trade gossip and old memories? If classmates used the Internet to keep up, surely military units did, too.

It didn't take long to locate several bulletin boards and identify one that allowed visitors to post queries. She composed a short, simple message. “Did anyone know my father, Larry M. Manning, who was stationed at Plattsburgh Air Force Base around 1988? [email protected].” Maybe this would be the breakthrough—if she could make contact with someone who'd known him, maybe it would lead to hard information.

Before she'd even finished making a sandwich for lunch, she heard the chime announcing new e-mail.

The answer was brief. “I knew Larry Manning and served with him in Central America. I was on special ops in his unit when he was killed 3 April 1988. He was a good man. I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't say any more than that, so please don't contact me.” There was no signature, only a cryptic e-mail address in the header.

Katherine nearly leapt off her seat. A connection, at last. She felt for her crimson pen in the outside pocket of her handbag, and not immediately locating it, rose in a panic and began to search frantically for it. She was relieved when it dropped to the floor but examined its thin shell carefully for any cracks. Satisfied that the only pen that would do had survived intact, she grabbed a pad and scribbled out the figures, hoping that what she came up with in her head was wrong. But what if . . . Katherine thought about all her mother's hedging, her failure to send the newspaper article, and the peculiar change of tone the subject imposed on her voice.

Katherine reread the guarded e-mail, this time focusing on “
specials ops
. . .
can't say any more than that, so please don't contact me
.” She was seeing a black hole and digging it deeper. This was not just the truth she was seeking in one of her academic investigations. This was
her
truth, with no certainty that once known, it would set her free. It was as if she were experiencing tremors increasing in strength, projecting an earthquake, and threatening her very foundation. Katherine knew she had to talk to her mother, she had to do it soon, and she had to do it in person.

Beth appreciated Katherine's making arrangements for her to stay at the Empire Hotel across from Lincoln Center, and even though it had been many years, she remembered the area well. She knew Katherine's tiny apartment had only a bed and a couch, but she thought that setting might make the talk easier somehow. At the hotel, she felt like a nurse being called before a peer review committee to explain a patient's death.

As Beth rehearsed in her mind her rationale for withholding the truth—that it was best for everyone—she felt her blood coursing through her body, overwhelmed by the emptiness of the justification. In the next moment, she thought,
it was not an attempted justification, but rather an act of kindness to my father and mother. They had already reached the conclusion that Larry was the father. They had already accepted Larry's death. And they were committed to helping her raise her child. What good would it have done to take all that away from them? And Katherine?

As Beth struggled with all of these conflicting thoughts, she felt dizzy and recognized the onset of another splitting migraine. She fought the urge to take more ibuprofen, knowing she had already exceeded the limit. She prayed her daughter wouldn't hate her, that Katherine could somehow get over this.

Beth worried in the cab ride all the way in from the airport, checked her bag with the doorman as Katherine had suggested, tried to calm herself, and headed for Lincoln Center. She was scared. She knew how strong-headed her daughter could be, how driven. She would say she understood, but would she really? Could she?

Katherine, in dark glasses, sat near the iconic fountain in front of the Metropolitan Opera House, keeping an eye out for her mother. She knew the ceremony, with only eighteen graduates, would be brief, which was fine with her. She'd anticipated this event for what seemed like forever but now, on this clear, bright day, she saw only a dark, threatening sky.

The cloud of her suspicion had hovered over her all week. No new information had arrived to confirm it or sweep it away. She'd thrown herself into job-search mode to avoid any all-out storm that might have completely ruined her graduation. She'd made it a point not to call Gerry Simpson. She'd discouraged Susan, her best friend from Columbia days, from taking time off to attend the ceremony—Susan would have taken one look at her face and demanded her to spill. And she certainly hadn't called her mother.

At her graduation from Columbia, she had thought wistfully about the father she never knew, imagining what it would be like to have him standing quietly by, holding her hand, smiling with pride. Those thoughts were now wiped out, as if she had hit the delete button in the computer in her head. Now, she found herself avoiding the pockets of students and their parents and friends hovering in the square.

She spied her mother walking up the steps, wearing a white dress with large yellow flowers and lightweight yellow sweater, with a matching handbag over her shoulder. Katherine thought for a fleeting moment of standing up and lifting the hem of her master's gown to reveal the yellow dress under it. But she couldn't fake her mood that far.

Instead she waved, made herself smile, and stood to meet her mother's long embrace—long enough to fix her resolve, settle down, be grateful, and remember everything her mother had done to make this day possible.

“I haven't missed out, have I?” Beth asked.

“No, you're fine, Mom. You . . . look beautiful . . . love your dress. I'm so glad you're here.” Katherine sensed her words sounded hollow.

“Come on, Katherine. This is huge. I'm proud,” Beth said, hugging Katherine again.

Katherine led her mother into Avery Fisher Hall, up the stairs to the narrow second floor gallery on the right, and selected a seat with the best view over the high barrier overlooking the auditorium.

“I'm not sure how long you'll have to wait, but once the pomp and circumstance starts, it should be over fairly soon.”

“Hope not. I want it to last,” Beth said.

“We'll meet downstairs in the lobby after the ceremony,” Katherine said, kissing her mother, and leaving the visitors' area as others were filing in.

After the formalities, speeches, and diploma ceremony, the small group of graduates, parents, and well-wishers gathered in the front lobby and then moved to the reception in the square. Katherine took the opportunity to introduce her mother at last to Gerry Simpson.

“Pleased to meet you Professor Simpson,” Beth said, offering her hand, which Gerry shook with obvious enthusiasm.

“I'm very glad to meet you as well,” he said. “Your daughter is a star in the making. It has been my honor to teach her. I know how proud you must be.”

“Thank you. My daughter has always been special.”

There was silence for a beat, and then Beth lightly laid her hand on Professor Simpson's arm and said, “There is one thing that has me puzzled, though.”

“Yes?” Simpson asked.

“I don't understand why you would ask a student to write a paper about a family member . . . especially when it wasn't required for graduation?”

Professor Simpson stared in silence, first at Beth, then at Katherine. “It's nuanced, and I thought, private. I meant what I said about Katherine. She has the rare capacity to be a great reporter. I thought the request would help.”

“Help how?” Beth persisted.

Katherine felt ill. She didn't register the next thing her mentor said, or what followed. The faces in front of her became distorted in waves of movement. Another ocular migraine was coming on. Her mother's ophthalmologist had told her the best way to deal with them was to eliminate the triggers, starting with avoiding stress.
Life plays cruel jokes,
Katherine thought, as she tried to signal her mother that it was time to go outside to the reception.

“We really have to leave now, Gerry,” Katherine said, taking her mother's arm and ushering her towards the door. “We don't want to be impolite and miss the reception,” she said, though that was exactly what she knew would happen.

“I agree,” Professor Simpson said with a nod and a warm smile. “I'm happy to have met you, Ms. Kelly. I hope you'll see the potential of the assignment in time.”

In the few minutes it took for them to cross the street to the hotel and take the elevator to Beth's room, Katherine's vision had returned to normal and the walls had nearly stopped spinning.

“I'm so sorry one of these episodes had to spoil your big day,” said Beth, laying a cool cloth across her daughter's forehead. “I'm afraid you've inherited that from me.”

“Or maybe from someone else,” Katherine said acidly. “But then, how would I know?” She immediately regretted her words. Her mother was silent.

Katherine sat up on the corner of the bed in the tiny room. “Mom, I need to ask you some questions I probably should have asked you long ago. If I've learned anything in all this journalism stuff, it's that assumptions are dangerous. You know I love you. You've been everything for me. I know I've pestered you for more information about my father . . . ”

“Katherine, I've . . . ”

“Please . . . let me finish. When I talk with someone during an investigation and she seems reluctant to give me the answers or let me see the documents she says she has, I get an uneasy, queasy feeling, the same feeling I have about our conversations about my father. I need to know all you know and have not told me about my father, including the date of his death.”

“I know, I don't have a lot, I've tried . . . ” Beth said.

Katherine put up her hand, signaling her mother to let her finish.

“When I didn't hear more from you about Operation Golden Pheasant, I did some further research. I stumbled on a chat site for folks involved in one way or another with what was going on with my father's unit back then. I got an e-mail from a man who served with my . . . with Larry Manning. Mom, do you know when Larry Manning died?”

The room seemed to grow even smaller.

Finally, Beth said, “I loved Larry, but I was not his wife. As I told you, one of his buddies, I didn't know him, called me to tell me. I was shocked. I cried long and hard. I don't remember any more about the conversation.”

Katherine could see the pain in her mother's eyes, but also the slight twitch in her lower lip, her flushed cheeks, and her eyes blinking more than usual: the cluster of multiple behavior telltale signs she had learned to recognize when a person is lying or holding back the truth. Katherine knew there was more.

“It's too—close in here,” said Beth. “Is there somewhere we can get some air?”

They took the elevator to the roof, where they searched for refuge from the afternoon sun.

“After you called me, I went up in the attic and found the article,” Beth admitted, eyes blinking more rapidly than ever. “I didn't bring it because it doesn't make any difference.”

“Actually, it makes all the difference in the world,” Katherine said. “The man who responded to my e-mail said that Airman Larry Manning died on April 3, 1988—eleven months before I was born. I'd like to know if that is accurate. If it is, then he's not my father. That makes a difference to me, Mother. A
big
difference.”