Forgive Me

“I am really tired,” said Nadine.

“Tex Mex night with margaritas. He’d like it, don’t you think?”

“Gwen,” said Nadine, “I’m going to take a nap now.”

“Oh.” Gwen was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Well, I just had to show you what I found in your daddy’s things.” She held out the shoe box.

“Sneakers?”

“No, silly,” said Gwen. “It’s all your articles.” She lifted newspaper clippings. “He saved every one,” she said.

One of the clippings fell from her hand, and Nadine held it up. It was a story she’d reported from South Africa: EVELINA MALE-FANE: MURDERER OR MARTYR? Nadine’s stomach clenched.

“That is the most terrifying story,” said Gwen. “That little African girl! How could she have killed an American? And a boy from Nantucket, no less.”

“Jason Irving,” said Nadine.

“Right. What a sicko. Did she get executed? I certainly hope so.”

“She’s in jail,” said Nadine.

“I would have voted for execution, myself,” said Gwen.

“She was fifteen,” said Nadine.

“A bad apple,” said Gwen, standing, “is a bad apple, any way you slice it.”

“Actually, she’s getting out of jail, if you really want to know,” said Nadine.

“Out?” said Gwen, sitting back down.

“The Truth and Reconciliation Commission. TRC, for short.”

“You have lost me, Nadine,” said Gwen.

“Under apartheid–” Nadine began.

“Oh Lord,” said Gwen, holding up her palm to stop Nadine.

“What?”

“Well, to be honest, sweetheart,” said Gwen, “I’m just not interested in history.”

Nadine sighed.

“What? A bunch of people over in Africa killed each other. I mean, what can you do?” She lifted her hands, a gesture of helplessness. “ Anyhoo, I just wanted you to know about this shoe box. Your daddy’s cut out every article you’ve ever written. He cares, Nadine, is what I’m saying.”

“Evelinas appearing before the TRC,” said Nadine. “She could be given amnesty.”

“You’re like an onion,” said Gwen. “Lots of layers. I mean that.”

“Okay,” said Nadine.

“An onion,” said Gwen. “Seems all rough, but then it’s tender underneath. Makes you cry. Best when softened up a little…”

“I get the picture,” said Nadine.

“Anyhoo,” said Gwen, “I’m real glad we had this little chat.”

When she was alone, Nadine stared at the article, which she had written almost ten years before.

Six

The summer she flew from JFK to Cape Town International Airport, Nadine was twenty-five, her hair in a long braid down her back. On her face, Nadine wore only sunscreen and ChapStick, and she was often mistaken for a student. But the lines in her forehead and the coldness in her eyes, her angry cynicism, betrayed her experience. By twenty-five, Nadine had been to Bhopal, India, where she had seen and reported on hundreds of dead bodies, victims of a slow, lethal leak in a Liberty Union methyl-isocyanate plant. She had comforted dying children in an emergency feeding center on the edge of Ethiopia’s Danakil Desert, filing detailed accounts for the Boston Tribune. Her articles about the torture wrought in Haiti by the Tonton Macoutes won her a five-hundred-dollar award, which she put toward credit card bills. She didn’t shy away from the gruesome details. In fact, as her Tribune editor, Eugenia, said, Nadine was “hot for gore.”

Nadine was ready to stare the worst in the face. But a steady paycheck still eluded her. It was part of the job: stringers paid their own way, hoping to sell enough stories to cover plane tickets, hotels (or crummy apartments), meals. Sometimes Nadine was forced to share a room with a more established reporter. Eugenia often bought Nadine’s stories, but Nadine dreamed of a steady position. Or the ultimate prize: paid expenses.

Eugenia called Nadine first when something unimaginable happened in a far corner of the world. “I don’t know how she handles it,” Nadine once overheard Eugenia telling another editor, “but she handles it. For now, anyway.” Eugenia had a foul mouth and a nose for ratings. “Nadine, babe,” she’d say, “I’m FedExing tickets to Haiti. Can you smell the blood?”

In Port-au-Prince, Nadine met Padget Thompson, the bureau chief for The New York Times. One night, as they drank whiskey at the Hotel Oloffson, Padget fixed her with a stare. “May I give you some advice, my dear?” he said.

“Of course,” said Nadine. She sipped her drink quickly, trying to pry her mind away from the boy she had seen that morning, killed in a voodoo ceremony.

“Your work is shocking. It’s fresh and energetic.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Nadine.

“But there will come a day when shocking people will grow tiresome. You’ll want to teach, to change things.”

“I’m hardly a tabloid reporter.”

“Oh?” said Padget. He ran a hand over thinning hair. “I don’t have a daughter,” he said. “Indulge me my fatherly tendencies.”

Nadine sighed, but revolved her hand to say go on.

“What you do is good. You rush in, detail the facts. You’re courageous. But to get better, to become a great reporter, you’re going to have to learn what it is you’re doing. You need to take it apart and put it back together with thought. You need to go to graduate school, and then stay in one place for a while. Your work needs perspective. Yes, horrible things are happening, and thank you for telling us. But why, Nadine? And what can we do about it?”

Nadine ordered another drink. She was quiet.

“For example,” said Padget. “When Duvalier flees the country, which he will, what’s going to happen? He’s a vicious asshole, yes. But who’s going to replace him? And what will become of Haiti then?”

Nadine looked up. “Whatever comes,” she said, “it will be better than Baby Doc.”

“Are you sure?” said Padget. “In ‘57, Baby Doc was the great hope.”

Nadine sipped her drink. “I never…,” she said. “I guess I hadn’t thought.”

“Thanks for listening,” said Padget. “Just a few words from an old man.”