The Witness: A Novel (62 page)

“No, and that’s the amazing thing. He calmed down. He explained the difference between anger and violence—anger being what you feel and violence, what you do. Then he proved by his behavior that they weren’t always connected. It was a turning point for me, because after that I was never afraid of him.”

“And now you’re close,” Knowles commented.

Too close, in Colin’s view.

“Yes. He taught me a lot during the time we were in the flat. And Colin—” she turned toward him—“that’s why I didn’t run when you got mad. I waited to see what you’d do.”

“Jenny, having heard all this, I’d like to alter my stance on the issue of birth control. I’ll make it a recommendation, not a requirement, that you be responsible for the method. It’s your body. In this instance, if you choose to trust Colin to protect you, I will as well. You should know, however, that most physicians do not require a pelvic examination prior to providing that sort of medication.”

“What’s our homework?” she asked.

“What would you like it to be?”

“I want Colin to give me another chance.”

O
n Saturday Colin went into the Yard to catch up on paperwork. Jenny needed a distraction, so she curled up with the book about Franklin Roosevelt that the Hollisters had given her. Colin hadn’t been happy about her disclosures to them; in fact, he’d questioned her at length about the information she’d given. Over and over she’d told him that the Hollisters hadn’t asked her anything. Their only concern had been her safety. And aside from confessing that she was the Scott witness, she hadn’t revealed very much, only that it was Colin’s case and that the policemen they’d met had been part of her protection team. She assured him that they recognized the need for discretion. Esther had said, “We’ll close the book on this issue. Your secret is safe with us.” Colin had finally concluded that no harm had been done, but she had been left with the feeling that she had done something wrong.

Freedom From Fear: A Treatise on the Life of Franklin Delano Roosevelt
, the title page read. There was a brief bio of the author, Bernard Alleson, but no photograph. He was born and educated in the northeast. Alleson’s was an athletic family, and he had participated in school and community competitions. When he was in his late teens, however, an accident had left him paralyzed below the waist.

“Everyone has a failing of some kind,” Alleson wrote in the introduction. “We all must reconcile ourselves to our limitations. The process is simply more pronounced in those individuals with physical handicaps, whose restrictions are evident and extreme.” Denial was the first stage, he claimed, in which we either do not accept what has happened to us or do not believe that its effect will be permanent. Bitterness and grief follow denial, but the phase he dubbed “now what” was the one that had spurred him to research and write the book. What happened once you dealt with the fear brought on by your condition? What did your life look like, once you decided to proceed with it?

She set the book down for a moment, angered by Alleson’s smooth prose. Was she supposed to accept that she would never heal, that the monster’s attack would mark her for the rest of her life? To settle for a life in which love played no part?

Chapter One gave a brief summary of the facts of FDR’s life. She
skimmed it, remembering the advice of one of her college professors: “Look for the big idea, because it’s the anchor for everything else.” Chapter Two revealed Alleson’s conviction that a historian is called to probe beyond the demonstrable facts of history to the intangibles that, however difficult to illustrate, caused a subject to come alive. Not every brilliant, well-educated, upper class man became successful in political life. Roosevelt had become paralyzed in 1921, yet eleven years later he had been elected President of the United States. How had he done it? The expectations of others had not been the driving force—his family had not wanted him to continue in politics after his illness. “It was a product instead,” Alleson wrote, “of Roosevelt’s self-concept. He had been indulged as a child, raised to believe that he was capable of great things. It was that mental image of himself, however at odds with his physical reality, that he carried with him and would not alter. Being a patriot, it was that mental image that he transferred to his country, believing always that his nation, no matter how besieged, could respond with greatness.”

The witness protection team had believed in her. So had Colin. Did he still? He loved her. Was that the same thing? Dr. Knowles thought he could help. Irrelevant—FDR had believed in
himself
. She needed to believe in herself.

Colin had not returned, and it was time for lunch. She made herself a sandwich and continued her reading. Alleson did not speculate at length about FDR’s fears, mentioning only that death would have been the initial fear, surfacing when his illness first struck, when the pain had been at its worst and the diagnosis vague. Over time treatment had promised life but not mobility. His fear of death had then receded, to be replaced by a fear of failure, the fear that he wouldn’t have a future worth living. For a man of Roosevelt’s stature, lack of a productive life was almost equivalent to death.

During dinner with Colin she was quiet, remembering Dr. Knowles’ concern that she feel safe sexually and his recommendation that some fabric remain between her and Colin. After spending most of the day reading a book about a handicapped man, written by a handicapped man, she saw her clothes as evidence of her handicap. The motorcyclist’s bullets could have crippled her; her body armor hadn’t covered her completely. Instead the monster had crippled her. Not with his fists—her bones and bruises had healed, and she could walk—but with his sexual attack. Had Roosevelt felt like a prisoner in his own body? Had Alleson? Why did she, when she had stood up to the monster in court?

Colin knew she’d been shaken by the newspaper story. He’d been shaken by the last therapy session and what had preceded it. Relationships weren’t linear; perhaps they would both benefit from a step back physically. It could ease the crushing disappointment he felt. He put his arms around her but gave her chaste kisses.

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O
n Sunday while Colin studied the newspaper, she delved further into the book about Roosevelt. His fears had clearly not led him to make safety a priority in his life. He had loved the sea and had spent as much time as he could on yachts and naval vessels. He had taken long trips by plane. He had had a car specially engineered so he could drive it. He had learned not to be afraid of his physical body. Wheelchair or not, his exploits proved that even his body was capable of more than people would have expected. His wheelchair had been an accessory, a tool that got him where he needed to go.

Roosevelt first referred to what he called the “Four Freedoms” in a speech he gave to Congress on January 6, 1941. It was Alleson’s belief that they were a result of fears that FDR had experienced, fears that he had overcome, and a complete chapter was devoted to each one. Freedom of speech and expression was the first. However illogical, handicapped people were often treated as if their intelligence were deficient also. What had Roosevelt’s response been? To run for political office, to meet with leaders of other nations, to give fireside chats to his countrymen, and to communicate his vision for freedom worldwide. Freedom of speech meant freedom to teach and freedom to learn.

Freedom of every person to worship God in his own way was the next cornerstone of Roosevelt’s quartet. Spiritual freedom was critical when you were not physically free—FDR chained by his paralysis, millions around the world imprisoned by unjust and repressive political systems. She remembered the Bible story of Paul and Silas, singing in prison, although their feet were in stocks and their bodies bloody from the beatings they had received. Freedom to worship meant the freedom to forgive. Roosevelt had sung hymns, too. His faith may have been shaken, but it had not been destroyed.

FDR had never been poor, but his illness had taught him the difference that having financial resources made. He had received the best medical care available. For the less fortunate, freedom from want meant that their basic needs could be met, for food, shelter, and clothing. For those who were more fortunate, freedom from want meant freedom to give, and Roosevelt had donated large sums of money to construct therapeutic centers to treat others afflicted with his disease.

She took a deep breath. The last freedom of the four was the one that concerned her the most: freedom from fear. In his speech, FDR had been referring to the fear that results from knowing another nation is capable of attacking yours. In his personal life, however, Roosevelt had been less able to defend himself than most men. He must have also been afraid of further physical deterioration. Hitler was on the international scene, yet Roosevelt resisted even the appearance of fright, standing strong first against the Nazi rhetoric, next by establishing an alliance with his British counterpart, Winston Churchill, and last by exercising his right as commander-in-chief to send the American military around the world to make courage visible. Love of country and hatred of evil
had motivated him.

She looked up from the book. Freedom from fear meant the freedom to love. You couldn’t love somebody—really love them—if you were afraid for your personal safety. Allied soldiers had left their homes and their families and fought for freedom. Not all had returned, but those who did built new lives and taught their children to love peace.

“If a ‘whole’ man had been in office instead of Roosevelt,” Alleson concluded, “someone whose experience of lack of freedom had been less profound, the course of history could have been completely altered.” Freedom was not a vague concept for FDR, but a tangible necessity of life. Every day that he put on his leg braces or pushed the wheels on his chair, his commitment to freedom grew, and his legacy was political freedom for millions who, without his resolve, would have been enslaved.

She closed the book, a slim volume full of wisdom she wanted to apply to her life. Colin was waiting, and as they headed toward the Heath, she tried first to describe what she’d read. “The book was all about freedom,” she said. “Freedom of speech was critical.”

“Yes, the leaders of both our countries used that freedom effectively,” he agreed.

“Freedom to worship.”

“It’s best not to underestimate the importance of that. Faith can move mountains.”

“Freedom from want.”

She wasn’t giving any details, and he didn’t ask for any. “Jenny, I’m capable of providing for you. I hope you know that.”

The weather was glorious, and the Heath was crowded with people, families having picnics, couples throwing Frisbees, individuals on bicycles. After spending two days indoors reading with artificial light, the sun seemed especially bright to her. A husband and wife passed them, the man with his small son astride his shoulders. The little boy was laughing with each intentional bounce his father made. Above them the sky was a limitless blue, the children’s kites as vivid as their parents’ smiles. None of them had any obvious handicaps.

“Freedom from fear,” she told him. “That was the last freedom I read about.”

They stepped aside to let a runner pass, then another. From the top of Parliament Hill they could see a stadium below. The race must finish there, because the ones who went by, sweating heavily and panting, their mouths open, had their eyes focused in that direction. They had conquered the last climb. It was downhill for them all the way now.

“Hitler was a monster, but he was defeated. I’m going to defeat my monster, too.”

He was no longer certain that it was possible.

“It’s the last big hill I have to overcome.” She peered up at him. They weren’t even holding hands, but other couples were. One bearded young man was stretched out on a blanket next to a girl. Would they go home and make love to each other later that night? If they could do it, why
couldn’t she?

He was in no hurry to return to the flat. The public areas of Hampstead masked his growing feeling of estrangement. A couple in love—that was what they were supposed to be—but privacy did not benefit them.

M
onday came, Colin went back to the Yard, and Jenny told Esther Hollister how helpful the book about Roosevelt had been. Esther patted her shoulder and bade her keep it. A customer—Jenny had learned to distinguish between potential buyers and those who simply liked to loiter—came in, and Jenny went upstairs to see what computer tasks Mr. Hollister had left for her.

While she worked, she continued to ponder the example of FDR. He was paralyzed: That was a fact. He hadn’t overcome his impediments; he had succeeded in spite of them. The author of the book was paralyzed also, but his condition had not kept him from writing a compelling work. She had been raped and brutalized. That was a part of her history she could not change.

Last week when she’d come home from the bookstore and waited for Colin to come through the door, she’d thought she could love him, but her body had betrayed her. Then had come that terrible session with Dr. Knowles when he’d made her say out loud what her reaction had been. It was worse than testifying. And now Colin didn’t want to do the homework exercises at all.

That night over omelettes and salad, she tried again to explain to him what she had read. In the witness protection flat they had discussed issues which arose from published material, and they had become closer. “Roosevelt survived a lot of campaigns before he became president. Every speech, every election was a chance to fail.”

Colin put his fork down very deliberately. “Damn it, Jenny,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Each one was an opportunity to succeed as well. And he did.”

Her eyes widened. He was mad at her because she hadn’t succeeded. But she hadn’t quit! She tried now to keep the conversation going. “That’s true. I was just going to say that. His illness didn’t keep him from achieving great things. If he hadn’t been president during World War II—”