Christmas Bells (18 page)

Henry had to smile at the scene so comically and vividly depicted. “And did the judge succeed?”

“Oh, yes. He had a bit of a head start and proved the faster runner. The night editor didn't stand a chance of overtaking him.” Grinning, Charley dropped into an armchair and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “When the great news was announced and the Proclamation read aloud, a thrill shot through the crowd. I've never seen such intense enthusiasm. The people seemed almost wild with jubilation, and the celebration spilled out into the streets—parades, speeches, bands playing, men cheering, ladies waving their handkerchiefs.”

“It is the dawning of a new day, and well worth celebrating.”

“You should've been there. Emerson was.”

“Then the fellowship of Massachusetts poets was well represented despite my absence.” Henry regarded his eldest son fondly. “I think I enjoyed your retelling of the events more than I would have had I experienced them myself.”

“But I forgot to tell you the most astonishing news of all.” Charley straightened in his chair, his eyes alight with eager anticipation. “President Lincoln made a few changes to the preliminary document that appeared in the papers last September. Among them, he announced that men of suitable condition among the newly freed slaves would be received into military service to garrison forts and other places, and to man vessels of all kinds.”

Henry stared, dumbfounded. “President Lincoln means to create regiments of colored soldiers?”

“And sailors too, from the sound of it.”

“Sumner has been calling upon the president to put rifles into the hands of colored men from the outset of the war,” Henry said in wonder. “Time and again Mr. Lincoln has rejected his proposals out of hand. I can only imagine what Sumner is thinking and feeling at this moment. I wish he were here now, so I might see the expression on his face and shake his hand.”

“It is a glorious thing that colored soldiers will at last be permitted to take up arms in defense of the Union.”

“And to fight for the freedom of their race.”

“How will it look to the world if I, who have enjoyed every privilege of wealth and success, every benefit of education and good family, sit comfortably at home while these brave men who have already endured so much will fight for the country whose blessings they have been denied, but which I have enjoyed as my birthright?”

Again Henry found himself without words, so taken aback was he by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. Never would he have expected Charley to turn the Emancipation Proclamation into an argument for his own enlistment. “I care nothing for the opinion of a judgmental world,” he managed to say.

“I don't think that's true, and even if it were,
I
care. I care very much. Every day I safely stroll the paths of Harvard, or idle away hours with my nose in a book, I feel my honor being weighed and found wanting.”

“The president's own eldest son has not enlisted.”

“That's Todd Lincoln's business and none of mine.” Charley regarded his father with steady determination. “Perhaps his father won't bestow his blessing and he can't bring himself to ignore the wishes of a beloved parent. Perhaps a time will come when duty to honor and country outweighs his duty to his father.”

Henry's gaze was equally determined. “I hope he is wise enough to forgo any rash decision that would break his father's heart at a time when Mr. Lincoln must remain strong and steadfast for the sake of all those who depend upon him.”

Charley inclined his head, but whether in acquiescence or simple acknowledgment Henry could not say for certain.

Their disagreement was the only unpleasantness to mar what had been a beautiful day full of sunshine, culminating in a tranquil, moonlit night. As he wrote in his journal before retiring, Henry fervently hoped that the moonlit serenity would prove a proper metaphor for the working of the Emancipation Proclamation—and of the quietude he prayed would fill his restless son's heart and mind.

Winter passed, and although Charley rarely spoke of enlisting after their confrontation on New Year's Day, Henry knew the subject was ever in his thoughts. Charley plugged away at his studies with none of the enjoyment Henry had known as a young scholar, but he often escaped the confines of lecture hall and library to travel to New York with friends or to visit family in Portland. He always remembered to keep Henry apprised of his whereabouts, so when he went missing one March afternoon with no warning, without even a note left behind to explain where he had gone so suddenly and when they could expect him to return, Henry was filled with apprehension.

Four days passed in dread and frustration with no word from Charley—and then a letter arrived at Craigie House bearing a Portland postmark.

Dear Papa,

You know for how long a time I have been wanting to go to war. I have tried hard to resist the temptation of going without your leave but I cannot any longer. I feel it to be my first duty to do what I can for my country and I would
willingly lay down my life for it if it would be of any good. God bless you all.

Yours affectionately,

Charley

Henry's cry of anguish brought Alice running, but it was several moments before he could bring himself to tell her what dreadful revelation had rendered him tearful and trembling.

Charley had gone to war.

The Widow's Tale

The holiday party at Paul's Boston offices on the last Friday before Christmas had always been one of his favorite traditions, one Camille was determined to honor in his memory. She had chosen the staffers' gifts in late October, when Paul had still been aware enough to approve her choices, an ability he had lost by the time she wrapped them and added a personal note of thanks to each card.

His loyal staffers would understand that the message was Paul's, though the handwriting was Camille's. She had been writing on his behalf for years, as his penmanship inexorably declined into an indecipherable scrawl. What his staff would not know was that she had not taken his dictation for months, and that she alone had composed the heartfelt messages in their cards, writing what she thought Paul would have, if the gift of speech had not forsaken him.

She and Paul had hoped for one last Christmas together at their Back Bay home with Grace and Ella, his two daughters from his first marriage, and their husbands and children. But the day
after Thanksgiving, Paul had taken a sudden turn for the worse, and although he rallied at the hospital, his legendary indomitable strength was unmistakably faltering. Heart aching, Camille had phoned the girls to come at once to say their farewells, which they did, and an agonizing forty-eight hours after they reached his bedside, Paul breathed his last. He left the world peacefully, easily, with less resistance than anyone would have expected from a man even his political opponents grudgingly admired as a tireless fighter for every person, cause, and bill he believed in.

No one would have complained if Camille had canceled the holiday staff party, but she summoned up her resolve and quietly insisted it must go forward. That was what Paul would have wanted, and she had fought by his side for too many years through too many crises to collapse in grief and leave a task unfinished. She had always been her father's daughter, as persistent and stubborn and driven as the revered and feared Graham McAllister had ever been, and yet this decision owed perhaps more to the influence of her mother, who had instilled in her from childhood that one's personal disappointments did not release one from one's obligations to others, and that loyalty must always be rewarded. And so while Camille made funeral arrangements and consulted with lawyers about her husband's estate, she continued to take calls from caterers and florists and DJs. As she forged ahead, checking the tasks off her list one by one, she gradually realized that she was actually planning another memorial service, one more intimate than his enormous public funeral attended by thousands of mourners, including the president and his wife, at least half of Congress, dozens of foreign dignitaries, and so many grief-stricken constituents that the line outside the door of St. Margaret's Church had wound around the block.

Paul's funeral in Boston had been for the world. The holiday party would be for Camille and his loyal staff, many of whom had worked with him and for him for decades, others fresh from
college, bright-eyed, idealistic, and impossibly young. She would thank them on her late husband's behalf for another year of hard work and dedication; they would celebrate the year's accomplishments as they always did. But unlike every other year, Paul would not be present to accept their applause and ardent admiration with sincere thanks and self-deprecating humor, and he would offer no inspiring words about all the good and great things they would accomplish together in the New Year. This time when they parted for the holidays they would truly say goodbye, to Paul and to one another.

The party officially began at one o'clock with the opening of the sumptuous buffet and, perhaps more important, the bar, but when Camille and her assistant, Kendra, arrived early to supervise the last-minute details, they discovered that office work had already sputtered to a halt. Clerks and assistants and interns were dazedly packing up for the winter recess or wandering aimlessly from office to break room, hands thrust in pockets, tears glinting in eyes. Camille had received assurances from the governor and the state party leadership that Paul's staff would remain employed well into the New Year to assist with the transition, and most would keep their jobs well after that, although the interim senator, whomever was eventually appointed, would probably replace a few with trusted aides of his or her own. Camille was deeply moved to realize that in their genuine mourning, Paul's staffers had forgotten to worry about their own futures, and she was grateful that she had secured their jobs at least for the time being. Letters of recommendation and a few well-placed called-in favors would help those whom Paul's replacement might choose to let go.

“I've never seen them so grim,” Kendra said in a practiced undertone as Camille made the rounds, greeting everyone and urging them to help themselves at the buffet. “This may go down as the most dismal holiday party in recorded history.”

“It's our responsibility to make sure it doesn't,” Camille
murmured back as she subtly gestured for the DJ to turn down the volume to a more tolerable level to allow for easier conversation.

“Even so, if you need me to extract you, give the signal.”

“Kendra, dear, you know I can't do that, not tonight, not under these circumstances.” On a more pragmatic note, Camille added, “Besides, everyone here knows our signals.”

Camille had been prepared to spend the first hour of the party accepting condolences, but she had not expected to find herself comforting tearful interns, assistants, and advisors as often as she was comforted. Everyone had a story to share about how Paul had inspired them, how he had helped them, how he had transformed their political cynicism into hope.

“I've always thought all politicians were the same,” Paul's director of social media admitted, shaking his head, swallowing hard, his eyes red-rimmed. “Slimy, opportunistic, power-hungry narcissists more interested in padding their offshore bank accounts than making a real difference in people's lives.”

“Oh, Jim, no,” she protested. “You're too young to be so jaded.”

“That was what I thought
before
I came to work for the senator.” Jim cleared his throat. “I've never known anyone with as much integrity, compassion, and genuine love of country as your husband. He inspires me to be a better man, to give more than I take, like he always did.”

Camille needed a moment to compose herself. “You're very kind,” she said, with scarcely a tremor in her voice. “Thank you.”

Soon thereafter, a dark-haired, strikingly pretty intern named Marisol approached, carrying a glass half-full of white wine in one hand and a plate of delicacies from the buffet in the other. Unlike the glass, the plate appeared untouched, as was Camille's. Lately nothing could tempt her appetite.

“Mrs. Barrett?” Marisol began tentatively. She was a political science major at the University of Massachusetts, and easily both the shyest and one of the most insightful of Paul's interns.

“Yes, Marisol?” Camille felt a stab of alarm as she spotted tears welling up in the younger woman's eyes. “Deep breath,” she murmured, as much for herself as for Marisol. Camille was barely holding herself together, and if anyone else broke down, she would surely follow.

Marisol nodded and inhaled deeply. “I have some news—good news. I wanted to share it with the senator, but it came too late—” She took another deep, shaky breath. “You must know what an inspiration your husband was to me, to all of us.”

“Yes, I do know.”

“He encouraged me to apply to law school. He advised me about where to apply, he wrote letters of recommendation, and—” Marisol's pride shone through her grief. “And it paid off. Yesterday I received my acceptance to Harvard Law School.”

“That's wonderful! Congratulations, Marisol. I'm delighted for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Barrett. I owe it all to the senator.”

“Not all, surely. You've been a diligent student on top of all the hours you've put in here, and you alone earned those excellent grades.”

Marisol nodded modestly, acknowledging her part in her success. “Still, I know Senator Barrett's recommendations made the difference, and without his encouragement, I probably wouldn't have set my sights so high.”

“Let this be a lesson to you never again to underestimate yourself,” said Camille emphatically. “I know the senator would be very proud of you.”

Marisol smiled, though her eyes glistened with tears. “Thank you, Mrs. Barrett. That means more to me than you could possibly imagine.”

Camille smiled rather than contradict her, for she thought she knew very well.

And so the party unfolded, in anecdotes that gratified and pained Camille in equal measure. Paul had profoundly affected the lives of everyone in that room, and by their own testimony, they were resolved to carry on his progressive vision of politics as public service, of improving the lives of ordinary people through sensible legislation and commonsense reform, strengthening the nation from the ground up.

What greater legacy could any man hope for than to inspire younger generations to make the world a better place? As she studied his staffers' faces and heard their stories, Camille felt herself overcome with longing and gratitude, and she wished with all her heart that she could tell Paul how much he was loved, admired, and respected. He had always been too self-effacing to endure such talk, even from his devoted wife. She hoped that somehow he had known what he had been too modest to hear.

Paul had often told her that humanity's most precious commodity was time—“Not love,” he had emphasized, “not because it's less important, but because you can run out of time, while love can be endlessly replenished”—and so by tradition, the holiday party always ended by late afternoon, granting the staff the gift of a few precious extra hours to spend as they wished—picking up their kids early from day care, shopping for Christmas gifts, catching an earlier flight home for the holidays. And so at half past three, Camille distributed gifts and offered a few words of gratitude and hope, adding a liberal dose of humor to keep things from becoming too maudlin. She found comfort in their laughter, in their shining optimism, in their enduring love for the best man she had ever known, the man she had been blessed to call her husband and most cherished friend for more than thirty years.

Camille wished everyone a Happy New Year and safe journeys; they thanked her with a crash of applause. On that note the party ended, but nearly everyone paused to wish her a Merry
Christmas on their way out the door. Several asked her to keep in touch, and a few young women flung their arms around her and wept. Camille embraced them as long as they needed, murmuring words of comfort, suddenly reluctant for the gathering to end, dreading the task that awaited her when the staff departed.

Too soon, only Camille, Kendra, and Paul's executive assistant, Alicia, remained. The cleaning crew arrived, and for a moment Camille stood near the reception desk, taking in the cheerful decorations and the depleted buffet, hugging her arms to her chest, utterly at a loss as to how to proceed. Then she became aware of Kendra and Alicia studying her, exchanging worried glances, and so she nodded briskly and said, “I suppose we should get to it.”

They nodded wordlessly and followed her into Paul's private office.

It was tidier than he had kept it in the old days, for he had not entered it for many weeks and Camille preferred an orderly workspace when she held court there. “Let's begin with his papers,” she said, more decisively than she felt. “Keep everything in chronological order, but separate his personal correspondence into other boxes.” She would have everything delivered to her home, where she would sort the wheat from the chaff at some unimaginable later date when she felt up to the task.

She glanced around at his prized books autographed by their esteemed authors, the framed photographs on the desk and the credenza—Paul beaming as he walked hand in hand with his pigtailed daughters on Cape Cod, Paul surrounded by his grandchildren in front of a glorious Christmas tree, Paul shaking hands with an impressive array of presidents, prime ministers, and Nobel Peace Prize winners, childhood heroes and colleagues, rivals and friends. Ella would cherish the photo of her father with Dr. Martin Luther King in Montgomery in 1966, Camille decided, while Grace would gratefully accept the two
photos of her father with Mother Teresa, one taken at her first Home for the Dying in Calcutta, the other in Washington at the White House ceremony at which she received the Presidential Medal of Freedom. One of his favorite perks of his high office, Paul had often remarked, was the opportunity to meet the people he most admired.

Once Camille had entered his office to find him studying the photographs and shaking his head in bewilderment. “See that guy with the goofy grin?” he had asked, gesturing toward the framed photos, arranged in pride of place on a sturdy oak bookcase. “That kid from Watertown, the son of a plumber and a kindergarten teacher?”