Christmas Bells

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  More than a year before, it had been almost impossible to open a newspaper or turn on the television without glimpsing Paul Barrett striding from office to car to apartment in a fruitless attempt to avoid the media circus—haggard, angry and miserable, not relaxed and happy as he was when she saw him, his fingers dancing with effortless grace upon the piano keys. His recent ex-wife had been caught in a tawdry affair with a governor whose presidential ambitions had been quashed, along with both of their marriages when the sordid details came out. At the time, Camille had found the whole matter pathetic and had refused to write about it.

  “You play wonderfully,” she told the congressman when the band returned and he relinquished the piano with a grin and a joke about keeping his day job.

  “Thanks.” Congressman Barrett eyed her warily, and for a fleeting moment she felt chagrined, as if she should apologize on behalf of journalists everywhere for all he had endured at their hands. “You’re putting on a great party tonight.”

  Camille waved a hand dismissively, not surprised that he knew who she was. “I agree it’s a lovely event, but I didn’t have any part in the planning. All the credit goes to my brother and his wife.”

  “I see. Are you covering the event, then?”

  “I’m not working tonight, so you needn’t censor yourself.” Camille sipped the last of her champagne and placed the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “I’m here to support the family’s charitable endeavors, and to enjoy myself.”

  Before the congressman could reply, the band began to play. Couples returned to the dance floor, and after a moment’s hesitation, and probably more out of politeness rather than anything else, he asked her to dance.

  She had not expected to like him. She despised the cloying sense of neediness and excessive, false bonhomie that enveloped most politicians, but she quickly learned that Paul was not of that sort. He was funny and smart, with a self-deprecating sense of humor that could have been annoying but was refreshing and charming instead. To her pleasant surprise, they spent most of the evening together, dancing and talking and wryly commenting on the not-entirely-accidental meetings and barely clandestine deal making going on all around them, until an aide appeared and apologetically whisked Paul off to meet some important potential donor or another.

  The next day, a lovely bouquet of flowers was delivered to her office, along with Paul’s card and an invitation to call if she would like to continue the conversation his aide had interrupted. After a day of weighing the possible consequences, both personal and professional, Camille called.

  When they began appearing in public together, Camille found herself uncomfortably thrust into the role of subject rather than reporter. When they announced their engagement two years later, concerns over the appearance of a conflict of interest compelled her to resign from the paper, wistfully, and not without regret. Some society observers looked askance at their twelve-year age difference and murmured that the marriage would never last. Several of Camille’s professional acquaintances accused her of crossing inviolable professional boundaries, while others seemed to regard her engagement as a betrayal, as if she had defected to the enemy. Political opponents and even a few cynical members of his own party publicly speculated that the congressman was only interested in the young heiress for her money and her father’s influence. Muffy, despite her relief that Camille was finally marrying, was sorely disappointed in her choice of husband—a politician of no particular family or fortune, and a mere congressman at that—and Graham took to proclaiming, adamantly and often, that his future son-in-law should expect no special dispensations from the rigorous scrutiny of the McAllister News Group. There were many awkward, uncomfortable, and chilly encounters with Ella and Grace, her stepdaughters-to-be, until they got to know one another better.

  But Camille loved Paul deeply, and despite everything, she was eager to face the challenges of her new role as political wife. She was inspired by Paul’s noble ambitions and lofty goals, and she resolved to do all she could to help him achieve them.

  To Muffy’s satisfaction, Paul did not remain “merely a congressman” for long. They were still newlyweds when he narrowly won election to the Senate; every six years after that, he was reelected by ever wider margins. There were days Camille missed journalism, the thrill of discovering a cover-up, the satisfaction of putting words on paper and sharing ideas with thousands of readers, but she found great fulfillment in being Paul’s partner, in love and in politics, and she was pleasantly surprised to discover that all of her education and experience up to that point—even the lessons she had unwillingly absorbed at the Muffy McAllister School of Deportment—had prepared her well for her second career.

  Music played an important role in their marriage, as it had in their meeting and their courtship. Camille first realized she was in love with Paul late one winter night in his Washington apartment, while she sat on the sofa wrapped in blankets and sipping mulled wine while he serenaded her with Gershwin tunes on an electric keyboard. As a boy Paul had sung in the church choir, and when he had begun lingering after rehearsals to pick out melodies on the ancient upright piano, a nun had taken notice and had offered to give him weekly lessons. When he had learned all Sister Winifred could teach him, she had arranged for a parishioner, a pianist and professor at the Berklee College of Music, to take him on as a pupil, pro bono. Although Paul played for sheer enjoyment and had never intended to become a professional musician, he had attended Boston College on a music scholarship, and had paid his way through law school with loans and regular gigs at piano bars.

  Muffy and Graham had bought them a beautiful residence in the Back Bay as a wedding gift, far more spacious and luxurious than their town house in the capital. Since they finally had enough room, as a gift for their first anniversary, Camille presented Paul with a magnificent Shigeru Kawai grand piano. “I heard somewhere that the first anniversary is the musical instrument year,” she teased as Paul stood staring in wonderment at the beautiful, gleaming piano, struck speechless with amazement and delight.

  “Paper,” he said, stepping forward to test the Middle-C key, shaking his head at the pure, rich, perfect tone. “I’m pretty sure the first anniversary is paper.”

  “I have that covered.” She lifted the top of the bench to reveal a storage space, which she had filled with sheet music.

  He often told her that he had never received a more wonderful gift, and she always replied that the piano had really been a gift to herself, for she loved to hear him play. Whenever they were at home rather than traveling throughout the state to meet with constituents or around the globe to meet world leaders, he played for her every day, bright American standards to start the morning, elegant classical music to unwind after supper.

  Paul played with such skill and passion and obvious joy it was perhaps inevitable that clumsy notes in the lower register were the first signs of his illness.

  At first he blamed infrequent practice, as the demands of the Senate kept him from playing as often as he liked. When the problem persisted, they both attributed it to fatigue or too much caffeine or the natural process of aging, which they ruefully bemoaned and resolved to resist tooth and claw. Then Camille noticed the faint tremor in his left hand; she asked how long it had afflicted him, and shocked by the answer, she insisted that he see his doctor at once.

  It was Parkinson’s disease, his doctor told them, suggesting they seek a second opinion with a specialist just to be sure. The specialist confirmed the original diagnosis, as they had dreaded, as they had expected he would.

  For years they were able to keep the knowledge of Paul’s illness within the family and their innermost circle of friends, but as his condition deteriorated, his most trusted aides were informed, and the party leadership. Camille assisted Paul in every way she could, compensating for his exhaustion and distraction, and disguising his physical symptoms to the extent she was able.

  Despite
the doctor’s recommendation that Paul avoid stress and fatigue, his work took on a new urgency. He redoubled his efforts to push important measures through the Senate, and he called in favors he had been saving for a prolonged political career that had suddenly become unlikely. They had good days when they thrived on their work and accomplished so much that they almost forgot his disease. They had bad days when friends warned them that sharp-eyed observers had noticed Paul’s tremor and rumors were circling that he was suffering from alcoholic withdrawal. The worst day came when Paul sat down at the piano, attempted a simple étude, and discovered he could no longer play.

  That was the only time Camille saw him weep for all he had lost, for all the inevitable losses yet to come.

  The beautiful piano sat in their living room for months, untouched except for regular dusting by the housekeeper. Camille wished she had learned to play, but as a young girl she had endured three years of piano lessons until her constant complaining wore down her exasperated parents and they had allowed her to quit. The piano had brought them so much joy, but to see it silent and neglected day after day brought them immeasurable pain.

  Paul had confided this to his priest, but it was Sister Winifred who suggested they donate the piano to St. Margaret’s. The music ministry still used the tinny upright Paul had picked out tunes upon as a choirboy, and it was an ongoing struggle to keep it in tune. “You can come and visit it whenever you like,” the white-haired nun promised cheerfully when they lingered at the church one Sunday after Mass. “I have it on the highest authority that it belongs here and will do untold good.”

  “Highest authority—does she mean God?” Camille asked Paul in an incredulous whisper afterward as she helped him down the front stairs to the car. “Does she mean that God speaks to her directly, and that he put in a special request for your piano?”

  “It is a magnificent piano,” Paul reminded her, and Camille had to agree he made a fair point.

  They were longtime anonymous benefactors of St. Margaret’s, the church where Paul had been baptized, where his family had worshipped, where his parents had married. They had paid for a new roof when insurance fell short, they had funded the complete revamping of the aging HVAC system, and they always contributed generously to annual appeals. Donating the piano was simply another way to honor the church that had played such an important role in Paul’s upbringing, and that continued to sustain them through their most recent, most arduous trial.

  It was heart-wrenching, and yet a relief too, when the movers came to transport the piano to its new home. And what an unexpected joy it was to hear it played again whenever they returned to Boston. The young accompanist for the children’s choir lacked Paul’s extraordinary talent, yet he was a fine pianist, playing with skill and heart, and when the children sang along, the music they created was as close to divine as Camille ever expected to hear on Earth.

  Paul had intended to break the news of his illness in his own time, after he had prepared himself for the onslaught of sympathy and premature eulogies that would surely follow, but someone leaked his medical records to the press, and suddenly he found himself in a maelstrom of lamentations from his supporters and accusations of deception from his opponents. Camille stood by his side at the hastily arranged press conference on the steps of the Capitol in which he acknowledged the truth and vowed to keep fighting in the Senate for as long as he was able.

  Camille had never been prouder of him, never more inspired by his boundless determination, his deep humility.

  Near the end, Camille had for all practical purposes taken over all of his duties that could be performed from his office. Then came the day he asked to go home, and she knew he meant their Boston residence. He declined most visitors and went out rarely, but once a week, and sometimes twice, he asked to be taken to St. Margaret’s to listen to the children’s choir and the beautiful piano Camille had given him for their first anniversary nearly thirty years before.

  And then Paul was gone, and forevermore Camille would sit alone in the pew where they had once listened together.

  She felt his presence strongly there, and it comforted her even as it made her miss him all the more. When she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that her beloved husband rather than the young accompanist sat at the piano, bringing forth rich, sonorous music, as marvelous and ephemeral as life itself.

  “What now?” she heard herself murmur aloud. She had devoted the last few years and every ounce of her time, energy, and attention to caring for Paul, to doing all she could to help him fulfill his life’s ambitions in the time remaining to him. She had focused so determinedly upon that vocation that she had given no thought to what might follow. She had plans for the immediate future, to be sure. Listening to the rest of choir practice. Attending the benefit dinner for Boston Children’s Hospital. Hosting the best Christmas she could manage for Paul’s grieving family. Clearing out his Boston offices, followed by those in Washington. But that would see her only through the end of January, at most. What then? How would she fill the empty days, the lonely years, after those last duties were completed?

  The future, once so rich with possibilities with Paul by her side, now stretched out before her like an unfathomable void, impossible to fill.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  March–June 1863

  Charley had run off to join the army without receiving his father’s blessing, without informing him of his intentions. Heartsick, Henry folded the letter, fumbled it into his waistcoat pocket, and went in search of Ernest, calling his name as he strode through the house. The alarm in his voice brought his younger son running, but when Henry queried him, Ernest denied knowing anything of his elder brother’s plans. His look of shocked abandonment convinced Henry that he spoke the truth.

  The Portland postmark was almost certainly a ruse meant to mislead pursuers and give Charley a few days’ head start, but it was a clue nonetheless. Charley’s good friend and third cousin George Rand resided in Portland; in all likelihood he was the accomplice who had posted Charley’s letter and might know his plans. After Henry had determined that no one at Craigie House had any idea where Charley had gone, he wrote to his headstrong, impulsive son, though he harbored little hope that he could persuade him to abandon his reckless scheme and come home.

  Camb. March 14 1863.

  My Dear Charley,

  Your letter this morning did not surprise me very much, as I thought it probable you had gone on some such mad-cap expedition. Still you have done very wrong; and I hope you will so see it and come home again at once.

  Your motive is a noble one; but you are too precipitate. I have always thought you, and still think you, too young to go into the army. It can be no reproach to you, and no disgrace, to wait a little longer; though I can very well understand your impatience.

  As soon as you receive this, let me know where you are, and what you have done, and are doing.

  All join in much love to you. I have not yet told anyone of your doings, but have said only that you are in Portland, that being the Postmark on your letter.

  Ever affectionately

  H. W. L.

  Next Henry wrote to his sister Anne in Portland to inform her of the family’s latest troubles, and to implore her to ask family and friends to search Portland for Charley in case he was indeed in the city. “He is under a strange delusion,” Henry lamented, “and I hope he will think better of it and come back. He is altogether too young to go into the army.” If Charley were found before he enlisted, he should be sent home immediately, preferably with an escort. If he were found too late, Henry asked that they arrange for Charley to be suitably outfitted before he departed for the front lines. “Please give the enclosed note of mine for Charley to George Rand,” Henry concluded, writing swiftly, frantically, as if minutes would make all the difference. “He is evidently in the secret, and will know where to find him.”

  Henry continued his d
esperate search through letters and telegrams, and a few days later, he received a letter from Captain William Henry McCartney, a Boston lawyer serving with the First Battery Massachusetts Volunteer Light Artillery, which solved the mystery of Charley’s disappearance but otherwise brought Henry little comfort.

  Camp Batty “A” Massacts

  Brooks Div 6 Army Corps

  March 12th 1863.

  To H W Longfellow Esq.

  Sir:

  Yesterday in coming from Philadelphia to this camp I was met by your Son: who desired to enlist in my Battery. I knew him by sight; and being as you may well suppose somewhat surprised; I began to question him—I ascertained that he was both clandestinely absent from his home, and very determined to enlist as a private Soldier. Indeed I learned that he had actually applied to be received in the Regular Infantry but had been rejected on account of the loss of a thumb. I did not consider him the proper person to enlist—as he was evidently intending—Then for the purpose of retaining him and in order to prevent his enlisting elsewhere I promised him to receive him as a recruit. I took him into my Hotel, and brought him down here this PM. He has made me promise to enlist him tomorrow, under pain if I don’t that he will go elsewhere; and where he is not known, and enlist. My object in writing you Sir—is to inform you; that I shall endeavor to make him suppose; that he is enlisted lawfully—and so to keep him here: until I shall be advised by you in the matter. He is very shrewd. So much so, that I was utterly unable to advise you last night, in Washington, of his whereabouts. So constantly did he look after me. I beg leave to add Sir that I have taken these steps both on account of the respect; which I entertain for his family, and for his own sake.