Now, however, the Man—better known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation—had worked out that the two bombers had stayed with yours truly in the aftermath of the attack, and I was wanted for aiding and abetting, a federal felony that carried a maximum sentence of twenty years. I had no choice but to get out of Dodge—and to do so right now. So, figuring they’d be watching all the bus stations and airports, I got on the Green Line out to Oak Park. Why Oak Park? Hey, it was Ernest Hemingway’s birthplace and I also decided that the one place they wouldn’t be looking for me would be out in the suburbs. I found a little motel on the edge of town and checked in.
Once night fell, I went out under cover of darkness and found a phone in the street. I called the operator and asked to make a station-to-station call to Burlington, Vermont. I chose station-to-station so no names would be used. She asked me to deposit $2.25 for three minutes. I held my breath and—even though this was years before I ever understood the real meaning of prayer or Christian witness—I said a little entreaty that James Windsor Longley would answer the phone.
James Windsor Longley (like so many people in this memoir, I am using a pseudonym to protect his real identity). Can you imagine a more patrician-sounding name? Then again, James Windsor Longley was just that: a true Boston Brahmin who, back in the sixties, went through something of a long-overdue adolescent rebellion when he discovered radical politics.
To describe James Windsor Longley as a mere radical really doesn’t do him justice. He was that much tougher breed of revolutionary: the intellectual ideologue playing Johnny Reb against his class and all the privileges that his country had bestowed upon him.
I got to know Professor Longley as a fraternal fellow traveler in the antiwar movement. He was in his early fifties at the time—and he was a big draw at any rally or demonstration, because he cut such a curious figure: the aging preppy professor who nonetheless spoke the language of radical political change. The kids loved him. To them, he was their dad turned revolutionary. The women especially loved him. And like all the rest of us in the movement, he considered sexual conquest without consequence to be one of the rewards of espousing antiestablishment rhetoric (and I should point out here that, when it came to free love back then, I was as much of a vagabond as the next lefty. The difference between myself and James Windsor Longley at the time was a straightforward one: he was married).
Anyway, I looked upon James Windsor Longley as something of a mentor whose counsel I always sought whenever the heat got too hot. And boy, was I in one smoking kitchen right now. So I was hugely relieved when he answered. Without giving too much of the game away—I sensed that his phone was bugged too—I simply hinted that I was in need of a quiet place to lie low for a little while. He asked a few indirect questions—“Does this relate to recent news from Chicago?”—that made it clear he knew I might have been somehow involved in the recent Department of Defense bombing there. Then he hinted that coming north to his place in Burlington might not be the coolest of ideas, especially as he suspected that the feds were always keeping an eye on him.
But then he said, “You know my daughter, Alison [also a pseudonym], is living in Croydon, Maine [not its real name]. And I know her husband is out of town right now—so I’m sure she’d put you up for a day or two. From what I gather, it’s pretty quiet in Croydon . . .”
And as nowhere in Maine was more than a few hours from the Canadian border, that definitely appealed to me too.
“Thanks, Comrade,” I said after I took the number.
“Good luck” was his reply.
I made a call to Greyhound and found out that there was a bus heading east. Three days later—following an obscure Greyhound route through minor cities, and crashing every night in nowhere hotels—I was deposited in Bridgton, Maine.
It was around five in the evening. I went to the only phone booth in Bridgton and called the number that James Windsor Longley had given me. His daughter, Alison, answered on the second ring. She sounded pleasant, welcoming—until I spun her some jive about how I was bumming around the country, researching a book I might write about The Radical United States of America (hey, I was beyond arrogant back then), and how I needed a place to crash for a couple of days. She sounded hesitant—and told me she’d have to call her father and her husband first before saying yes. “What a square,” I thought to myself—but said nothing. I needed to get off the road fast and hide out until I got further word from Jack Daniels about my next move.
Twenty very long minutes passed until the public phone started ringing. It was Alison.
“Okay,” she said, “my dad said you’re cool, and my husband’s own father is dying, so he’s out of town and has got other things on his mind. And quite frankly, it’s pretty lonely here in this small town, so I could use the company.”
Croydon was just seven miles from Bridgton. I found the one and only cab company in town and dropped five bucks on the ride. En route the driver asked me what I was doing in Croydon. “Visiting an old college friend” was my reply.
Alison told me that the house they were supposed to be living in had been damaged due to a burst pipe, so they were temporarily squatting in an apartment above the doctor’s office. It wasn’t hard to find. Croydon, Maine, was a one-street town, a blink-once-you-miss-it sort of place.
But I did more than just blink when Alison opened the door. Ever heard the French expression coup de foudre? It means “love at first sight”—and a proper coup de foudre hits you like a slap across the face. I looked at her, she looked at me, and although the only words we exchanged were awkward greetings, I could tell immediately that the attraction wasn’t one-sided. It was very mutual.
Of course, I noted right away that she was holding a little baby in one arm. Not that I gave such detail a second thought. I was the Great Revolutionary—the advocate of free love. And from the moment our eyes locked, I knew that Alison and I were destined to become lovers. Because what I saw in her deep, sad gaze was longing—a longing to escape from the small-town dead end she’d found herself in.
The apartment was poky—three small rooms stuffed with furniture too big for its small dimensions. Alison apologized for the cramped conditions.
“Hey,” I told her. “No need to go all bourgeois on me.”
She laughed, then said, “That’s the first time somebody’s used a two-syllable word in my presence since we moved to this burg!”
We hit it off immediately. Within an hour we’d put away most of a bottle of wine and were sliding into a great spaghetti and meatballs dinner she’d made us. Her little son, Baby Jeff, played in his playpen while we ate, drank, and had a heavy conversation about things political and the meaning of life.
“I haven’t talked about this sort of stuff since college,” Alison admitted. “My husband is a good man, but he really isn’t up to much in the big ideas department.”
She touched the top of my hand as she said that—and looked at me longingly with her big liquid eyes. Even though I was totally attracted to her—and was of the immoral opinion back then that monogamy was for squares—a small part of me (the part, I think, that years later allowed me to be open to Jesus’s love and guiding hand) stopped me from going any further. I could also sense that Alison was torn between desire and responsibility . . . and, this evening anyway, I decided that it was best to be prudent and not take things any further. So she fixed up a few sofa cushions for me on the floor, helped me spread out my sleeping bag, and wished me a good night. What she didn’t realize was, after three nights of nervy travel, her great warmth of spirit made me feel safe for the first time in days. I was no longer just a radical on the run. I was a man falling in love.
The next day, Alison showed me Croydon. Though I smugly thought to myself that this place was the original boring Mom’s Apple Pie small burg, now I can see what a unique place it was—and how rooted Croydon was in the great American tradition of small-town communal spirit and strong family values. Alison worked in the library—a quaint, well-s
tocked place, filled with loads of local children learning an early love of books. And I also fell for the local diner and the great general store, where all the great local characters also met to discuss the affairs of the day. And after she finished work that afternoon, we picked up Baby Jeff from the lovely old lady who looked after him while Alison was at the library, and we drove over to one of New England’s great natural wonders: Sebago Lake.
It was the perfect autumn day—and the Maine foliage was putting on the best show imaginable. We rented a canoe and—with Baby Jeff held tightly in Alison’s arms—I paddled us out in the middle of the lake. Had I known God then, I would have realized that He was shining His light upon us and hinting that, in such a beautiful, bountiful world as our own, we must not overstep that big moral border we both so wanted to traverse.
“You know, Toby,” Alison said to me when we were out in the middle of the lake, “Gerry is a very good husband: kind, decent, loyal. But—I hate to admit this—there’s no charge between us, no passion, no intensity, no romance. And I’m still so young, so full of possibility. Surely there’s something beyond all this.”
There are times when you speak before thinking. This was one of them.
“Why don’t you run off with me?” I said.
She blanched. “You mean that?”
“More than I’ve ever meant anything in my life,” I said.
“But we’ve only known each other . . .”
“I know—less than twenty-four hours. And still—”
I broke off, finding it difficult to put into words what the heart was saying.
“Tell me . . .” she said. “Try.”
“Certainty like this comes once in a lifetime,” I said.
“That’s beautiful,” she said.
“That’s the truth,” I said.
“But I’m married.”
“I know . . . Just as I know that the feeling I have right now is one that will never leave me.”
“Oh, Toby . . .” she said quietly. “Why did you ever come into my life?”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“I’m not. And yet, life would have been so much easier if—”
Now it was her turn to break off and turn away from me.
“Tell me, my love,” I said.
“. . . if I hadn’t set eyes on you and known immediately that you were the one I was meant to be with.”
We said nothing for a long time thereafter. Alison rested her head against Baby Jeff’s head. Then, after several minutes, she looked up at me and said, “I think you should leave tonight.”
I was privately crushed by the news—just as I was also worried about where I could head next and avoid detection. But though I knew that, by leaving, I was putting my freedom in jeopardy, I suddenly did something totally unusual for me: I made a selfless decision and decided that if, by leaving, I would make things easier for Alison, then so be it . . . even though it meant walking away from the woman I loved.
I paddled us back to shore. We loaded Baby Jeff into the car and then drove off to Croydon in silence. We got there just after sunset. Upstairs, Alison bathed and fed Baby Jeff while I repacked my knapsack and phoned Greyhound in Bridgton to find out the next bus to . . .
Well, truth be told, I had no idea where I’d be going next.
While I was on the phone, Alison brought Jeff into the bedroom and put him to sleep in his crib. When she returned, I said, “There’s a bus from Bridgton to Lewiston at eight p.m. I think I’ll try to make that.”
“But where will you go?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re right: I have to go. I have to—”
I never got to finish that sentence, as we were suddenly in each other’s arms, locked in the deepest, most passionate embrace. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other—and within moments, we had stumbled into the bedroom.
Around an hour later, as we lay together naked, curled up in each other’s arms, I couldn’t help but think: I’ve had sex so many times with so many different women, but this was the first time I have truly made love. At the end of our bed, Baby Jeff slept soundly, oblivious to all that had happened right in front of him. Alison and I said nothing to each other. We just kept gazing into each other’s eyes. Then, out of nowhere, the phone began to ring. Alison tensed and got up, throwing on a bathrobe. She went into the next room and answered it.
“You want to speak to whom?” I heard her asking, followed up by, “I’m sorry, but there’s no Glenn Walker at this number . . . really, you must be mistaken . . .”
I was suddenly out of the bed, pulling on my jeans and saying, “That’s for me.”
Alison pulled the phone away from her ear, and looked at me with something approaching total shock—the sort of shock that comes with discovering that someone has totally betrayed your trust.
I took the phone from her. I immediately heard a voice I knew all too well on the other end.
“Groucho?”
“Hey, if I was Harpo . . .” I said. Alison’s puzzlement deepened.
“Affirmative,” Jack Daniels said. “And, as always, I’ll be fast. Our friends seem to know that you are somewhere in New England—as some ticket guy at Greyhound in Albany saw your mug in the local rag, called our friends, and told them he remembers selling you a ticket to Maine just two days ago. So I’d suggest a hop and a skip tonight. Understood?”
“Affirmative,” I said.
“Good. And our real friends up above will rendezvous with you in the town of Saint-Georges. I’ve been studying your whereabouts—and this is about a seven-hour drive from you . . . and, for them, the easiest place to meet you. Do you think you can get access to wheels?”
“Not tonight. But maybe tomorrow I can rent a car.”
“Tomorrow might be pushing it. Talk to your hostess. And expect a call from me again in fifteen minutes.”
The line went dead. I put down the phone. Alison came over to me and took me by both hands.
“Alison, my love . . .” I started to say, but the words became choked in my throat.
“You have to tell me,” she said.
“I don’t want to involve you . . .”
“I am already involved,” she said, “because I love you.”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“Toby, please, tell me the truth . . . no matter how horrible it is.”
She led me over to the sofa. She sat me down. She looked deep into my eyes . . . and I told her everything. I spared no details. I made no excuses for myself. Just as I also explained that there was a split-second moment after Jack Daniels had told me to harbor the bombers that I came very close to telling him, “This is wrong. I can’t do it.”
“But,” I explained to Alison, “if I had told him that, they might have killed me. Once you’re in a Weatherman cell, you can’t get out. And all betrayals may be punishable by death.”
“Oh, my poor darling,” Alison said. “What a terrible choice you had to make.”
“And I now realize I made the wrong choice. And I really want to go to the authorities, give myself up. But I know if I do that, I am looking at twenty years in a federal penitentiary. Whereas if I make it across the border to Canada, I will have more leverage when it comes to bargaining with the FBI. I know that sounds cynical, but . . .”
“I understand. Because, as you know, my dad has been harassed by the feds for years. And if they get you on this side of the border, they will show you no mercy. So, yes, you must flee tonight.”
“But how? I don’t have a vehicle.”
Without hesitation, she said, “I’ll drive you.”
“You can’t do that,” I said. “You’ll be immediately implicated. If they caught us, you could go to jail. You’d be separated from Baby Jeff. I won’t let you . . .”
“Do you have identification in the name of . . . what did that guy call you?”
“Glenn Walker. And yes, I have ID in that name.”
“Well, if we leave now, we’ll get to the
border in a couple of hours, and they won’t stop a man named Walker traveling with his wife and child.”
“You’re going to bring Baby Jeff?”
“He won’t notice. And anyway, I can’t leave him here.”
“And say your husband calls while you’re gone?”
“If I call him now, he won’t ring me back tonight. It’s not his style to check in a lot.”
“I still can’t let you . . .”
“I have to do it.”
“But why?”
She gripped my hands tighter.
“Even though I abhor violence, especially directed against innocent civilians, I do so loathe this terrible war we are fighting in Southeast Asia. I’ve always stayed on the sidelines—out of fear, perhaps . . . or maybe my own inability to show commitment. But do you know what I have learned over the past twenty-four hours from you? The fact that deep, abiding love is the most important commitment there is. And as I know that you too were a nonviolent activist coerced into harboring violent men, I have to help you escape.”
“I don’t know what to say, Alison.”
She leaned over and kissed me deeply.
“There is nothing to say, except: let’s be ready to leave in a half hour.”
I dashed back to the bedroom, had a quick shower, got dressed, and made the bed. Alison, meanwhile, threw some baby stuff—diapers, milk bottles, spare clothes, and pacifiers—into a small bag. She also dug out her passport and Baby Jeff’s birth certificate as identification. The phone rang. She answered it and handed it to me. It was Jack Daniels.
“Groucho?”
“Hey, if I was Harpo . . .”
“Affirmative,” he said. “What’s the state of play?”
“I’m ready to hop, skip, and jump.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 148