|
Subject: |
Chapter One |
|
From: |
anniehaley79@aol.com |
|
Date: |
December 6, 2001 09:15 |
|
To: |
eric.sawyer@usmc.mil |
While you were arriving in Afghanistan, I was going home. Alone.
I couldn’t get a direct flight, which meant I flew into Reagan instead of Dulles. We passed over the Pentagon and its gaping hole. A small reminder of the larger damage, a reminder of why you’re not here.
You take care of business over there and then hurry back home. We have so much to talk about. “You will tell me everything. In the aftermath we will come home bringing to your comfortable armchairs that slight weariness exquisite at twilight and it will be a year before dinner is served.” Those are the word of Gladys Deacon, Duchess of Marlborough, as said to Bernard Berenson, the man she loved.
I’ve been to England and to Paris. I’ve seen Boston, if only in my mind. I met a writer and a duchess. I saw my mother in love and found out about my dad. Yep. That old topic. It’s nothing I can go into over e-mail. But wait until you hear the rest.
I’ve seen these places and feel like I’ve traveled a million miles. Now, after looking back, I’m trying my hand at moving forward. Yesterday I mailed an application to Harvard University. It’s not what you think.
I applied for a six-month research fellowship, with the Berenson library, the very same Berenson I “met” on my trip. I didn’t have the easiest time describing my qualifications and, oddly, “fake researcher” doesn’t look all that impressive on paper. But years ago my mom applied for a job with nothing to back her up. Turned out for the best, in the (very long) end.
And what of the formidable Laurel Haley? Well, she stayed with Gus. That’s right, the man from the pub you were so worried about. See how I could never fit these things in an e-mail? For now, let’s leave it at this. My mom and Gus went to Paris once. And in Paris they remain.
You’re doing your job—safely, I hope—but I wish you were here. At age twenty-two I’m an unexpected empty nester and this old farm is too quiet by myself. Don’t worry. I do have some company, in the form of some very sick little girls who want to find some freedom on a horse.
Six months, seven months, whatever it takes. I might not be in Virginia, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be here for your return. When you arrive, we’ll celebrate. Then we’ll sit in our armchairs, in the weary twilight. You’ll talk about the fight. As for me, I’ll have a magnificent story to tell.