“Me, too—I mean to hear your voice.” and then she told him, “I might—I might—no, not I might; I will come home earlier than I expected.” That confirmed her hint of moments ago. And for further confirmation she added, “I want to come home.”
“Soon?”
“Very soon. I am only me and I want to come home to the Silver Spray. I can’t wait.”
As soon as they hung up Anna picked up the telephone receiver again and asked the hotel operator on the other end, “Can you get me Twahhh?”
“Twahhh?” the operator asked.
“Yes. It’s spelled T.W.A.”
“Of course. I’ll get that for you. You mean the airline?”
“Yes.”
“In English?”
“Yes.”
But it was neither in English or Italian or any other language. “All lines are busy,” she was told by the hotel operator. “I’ll keep trying and call you back when the line to the airline’s number is free.”
It wasn’t free until the next morning when the operator connected her to an airline attendant who spoke perfect English: “T.W.A. Good Morning.” Anna requested that the rest of her open ended round-trip ticket go into effect from Rome’s Fiumicino Leonardo de Vinci International Airport to the route that would get her on connecting flights “for my—for my ‘I’m going home ticket,’” leaving it up to the airline attendant at the other end of the line to work it out all the way back to San Diego. Anna added, “Fast, please.”
But it wasn’t fast when the phone rang again and it wasn’t the airline; it was Chris again. “It must be mental telepathy all over Southern California” he told Anna. “Things are going my way and your way: Someone called here for you. Do you know a William Caruthers?”
There was a hesitant, “William Caruthers?”
“Who is he?”
“The best casting director in the whole world! He’s the casting director of Gemstone!”
“They want you back.”
“What!?”
“You had a phone call. I took it and it was some woman who said she was calling for William Caruthers and she put him on and he said he wants you to call him back. I told him you’re in Rome but that I talk to you—to you every day. He got the message. He understood that we—we have something going and he said, ‘We want to give it another try for Savannah. You can tell her that pretty much the same deal as before except no A.W.O.L.— No Absent Without Official Leave from her and with guarantees from her on that. Tough guarantees.’ He said that ‘a lot of viewers want her back’—you back and that your very popular with their viewers and so they want to give you another test if you’ll be back on the 2nd of next month—January.’ That’s what he told me to tell you. Does it sound good to you, honey?”
“Oh! Oh, yes! It sounds like heaven!”
“I said that I was sure you would call him. You have to gurantee to him that there will be no A.W.O.L.’s”
“I’ll call him right away and guarantee him and then I’ll find out fromTwah when I can get there!”
Before Anna left Rome, Lorna took her to the Trevi Fountain just blocks from the hotel. When they stood in front of the fountain Lorna asked, “Do you have three coins?”
Anna nodded. “Yes. What denomination?”
“It doesn’t make any difference.”
“Italian or American coins?”
“No matter. It’s alright—any country. Now turn around so you don’t face the fountain. And throw every one of the three coins over your shoulder into the fountain one by one—and it means you’ll come back to Rome. I so much want you to be back and be able to see you here again, but I’ll see you on television again before then, I’m sure!”
“I’ll miss you, Lorna. You are so understanding and you aren’t angry at me?”
“How could I be angry at you—Anna.” She had whispered that name. And she added in the newly added whisper, “Can I say that name reserved for your closest friends? Can I call you ‘Anna’ here? The fountain is so noisy no one can hear.”
“You can say any name you want to call me. You can scream it out and I’ll never protest. And I will answer you as Sister Lorna who I know deserves that title.”
Lorna smiled and answered, “If things go as I want, my name will be somewhat dependent on the Order in which I become a Sister. And, if I have my choice, my name will be Sister Mary Savannah. One name from Heaven and the second name for someone who is so good and important from my time on earth.”
elegy
THEME TWENTY-FIVE
HOME
SOMETIMES OLD NAMES CHANGE their accepted meanings. Home had been the name that was given by Christopher Straw and Anna Lane to the Silver Spray in Ocean Beach of San Diego, and now Home was the name they began to describe the Bahia, a magnificent luxury hotel on a peninsula in Mission Beach of San Diego with its low and wide elevations of its exterior, and a restaurant on the Bahia’s outdoor patio. Christopher made the decision for the move from one residence to another; this one up the coast from the Silver Spray, with the Bahia’s own adjoining rooms as a gift to Anna and a gift for himself.
Another name that, at a minimum, was changing its definition in their lives was something that became unlocked within Anna Lane. The change started while in Rome and remained unlocked within her as she was back with Chris and living in the Bahia. That new definition was something deep and positive and important. Adding to it but less significant than the characteristic itself was that it was accompanied by a new schedule of driving back and forth each week from San Diego to Los Angeles to San Diego for the purpose of her renewed profession of acting that she loved in Los Angeles, all while she was living with whom she loved in San Diego. It all added up to new differences within her inward status of loyalty to her lover and loyalty to her employer with care not to disappoint, and confidence combined with modesty that she could feel and others could sense.
And there was a new definition of their devotion to each other and even a new definition to the job held by Christopher Straw as confirmed by the display of a round piece of metal protected by celluloid and pinned on his suit jacket. It was his badge at General Dynamics Astronautics that had changed from being a designed pattern of black and white thin stripes into being a solid red, with that solid red meaning he had achieved the rank of supervisor in the nation’s pursuit of supremacy in space.
To Home and to Anna and to Chris it was a year of clean newness.
But the years closely following that washed-and-dried-year brought radical change for Christopher Straw with a jolt that rocked him as well as the dreams he had enjoyed since being a child: it was the year of 1966 after it changed through the annual loop that all years come to know and this one untied its ending loop, getting out of earth and into the surrender of 1966, allowing 1967 to enter. Within the new year’s 27th day there was an explosion at the northern end of Florida’s Cape just above what was known as ICBM Row.
Sitting around the desk that formed a squared hollow-centered pattern in the third floor conference room of General Dynamics Astronautics were eighteen men with red badges. With untypical slowness and sadness, Chuck Newton, the Communications Director, among other titles and duties, stood and gave the announcement of what happened to Apollo 1 at the Cape and concluded by saying “It had to happen someday. Today was the day. From the beginning we all knew that this—this—the New Frontier—was not risk-free. On this date; today it wouldn’t be direct tragedy for one of us at this table, but, still tragically, it is friends working with the same objectives in our career—at the Cape or—I don’t know—but most likely one of those who were to ride the Birds. They were never without threat of horror from anything imaginable—from a bad thread on a 25-cent screw used somewhere on the Bird that was screwed in wrong—a 25-cent screw that someone missed or some other error or simply—I don’t know—of the unknown. It had to happen someday. We are going to get on and we are going to the moon and into far—far deep space as originally planned and with little de
lay.” He looked around the table and there was no comment from anyone. He walked out of the room before what he feared could quickly become an unguarded emotional display that was welling beneath his slow talk.
The room of supervisors was silent except for Christopher Straw. From his seated position he looked around the table at each one individually and he did not pick up the cue from Chuck Newton’s attempt at optimism. “I can accept that none of us in this room are going to the moon. What I cannot accept is my belief today—today—that after all, no American is going there after what happened at the Cape today—from what Chuck told us just now—it’s just the final—he didn’t say it—but it’s—come on—it’s the final ‘gong’ over our space program. Gus Grissom is dead. Ed White is dead. Roger Chaffee is dead. Apollo 1 is dead. And of all things it was just a static test; no launch; it was only a static test on the launching pad—a rehearsal on Pad 34—without a launch scheduled! Exploded! An electrical fire! The Bird wasn’t even fueled! Burned up the Capsule—the Command Module—the Cabin—Gus and Ed and Roger. Three Astronauts gone and it wlll be Cosmonauts who will be going to the moon. Not Astronauts. Space into the Heavens is not meant for our country in our times. That’s all. Leave it to the Soviets; to the Gagarins, to theTitovs, to the Tereshkovas. JFK is gone and so is Gus, Ed and Roger. And just as likely, so is the moon.”
He was sorry he said that as soon as he heard his own statement that came out of his mouth having originated in tough instinctive reactions.
As the sun went down that day, Chris and Anna were sitting together close to the pool of the Bahia in two beach-rests next to each other. Chris was still in the suit he wore to work including a tie, and Anna was in a bathing suit. There was an absence of conversation for a long time until Anna asked him, “Did you know them?”
“Gus. Gus Grissom. He was a friend. Good man. Great sense of humor. He was fun to be with. I knew him well because he was one of the Mercury 7. I was with Ed only a few times after Mercury was done; a kind and good man—and although I met Chaffee I didn’t really know him. But I know he was a good guy. I know a number of people at the Cape who were close friends of his.”
“I am so sorry, honey; sorry this happened.”
“I know. I know. It just—it just shouldn’t have happened. They were only as high as the capsule resting on top of the rocket that never left the launcher. That’s as high as they got on this one. And even the rocket is gone. You know we get to know those—you know—those birds—attached to a umbilical cord.” And then he corrected himself. “Its umbilical tower. The bird owns it.”
“I know about how you all feel about those rockets. You get to know them. You told me that and I understand it.”
“I don’t think L.B.J. is as dedicated about space as JFK was.”
“Oh, Chris! Don’t! You can do it if you want but are you mad at President Johnson of all people? You know that he didn’t do it and you know that Johnson has always been a big supporter of space exploration—of manned flight. That’s why when Kennedy was not even President yet but when he was still President-elect, he asked Johnson as Vice President-elect to do something besides being Vice President and Kennedy made him the Chairman of the National Space Council. It is so well known that he did that. Kennedy could have chosen anyone. He did that before Shepherd even went up. You’re angry, honey. I understand why. But your anger is so misdireted.”
Chris nodded. “You got everything right.” And he was silent for a while before adding, “Yes, I’m terribly angry.”
“You’re bigger than that. Anyone can be angry when bad things happen. Your anger at President Johnson is there because you’re angry at the times—because you’re living through a tragedy—but anger can stain, you know. Don’t let that happen, Chris. Rinse it off quick before it stains on you and is permanent, unable to be washed out. That can happen, too. Don’t let it.”
“Look, I know you’re right and I know it doesn’t make sense to level the anger at Johnson. But nothing makes sense right now. And I know you have this—analyzed right. I can’t justify these times. Why did all this have to happen? Why did Apollo blow up? Tell me why that happened? I don’t mean technically; I mean morally. Why did God permit that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“But, Anna, you should know. You spent time thinking, even going so far as thinking in Rome and coming back with a halo. I mean it. A halo. So why do these things happen? Why are Gus and Ed and Roger dead?”
She just shook her head, not wanting to say “I don’t know” again.
“Sorry, honey,” Chris said. “I don’t expect an answer. I’ll try and be okay. I’m not going to allow myself to enter into being upset and wrathful and filled with anger because of all this—this terror. I’m not going to allow that to go on.”
“There are two people who will thank you for that, Chris.”
“Who?”
“Me. Right away—me. I’ll thank you. And a little later, you’ll thank yourself. Thanking yourself would be a God-send.”
“A God-send?”’
“Yes. Because that will be a wonderful treasure to put into your mind’s vault of hidden secret possessions to look through some—some lonely night reserved for thanking yourself for doing the right thing.” She felt as though she was surrounded by sudden goodness and that it had found a home within her. “Get some more of those possessions. They don’t cost anything and I’m sure that once you get them, there is still always plenty of room up in your vault to keep them all. All they cost is just giving up some heartache.”
“You have a halo, Anna.”
Anna smiled at him. “No halo, honey. It is just that—that you and I are in a giant orchestra led by the conductor: God. We are members of a huge orchestra that will be here for a while. You and I are members of it and we should do something worthwhile as we play our instruments loaned to us by Him. It is up to us to play well.”
“Whatever you learned in Italy, it’s like something more than what you think it was. And, of all things, you were only there for hours. And you’re saving me the time and effort to travel there and back. What’s the way to explain it? To be guided by your trip I never took? That’s very rare. I see a halo. It’s new and it’s a golden one.”
Anna was not only listening. Maybe no one but Chris could see the halo but if others had known her for a long time they at least could now see that she had a sparkle in her eyes she hadn’t had since she was a little girl. “But nothing happened in Rome. Nothing!” she said.
“Something did. It needed no time or visuals as it was an unseen instant.”
“Maybe I got it on Twahhh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
THEME TWENTY-SIX
RAJ AND THE OLD POST OFFICE BUILDING
THREE MONTHS LATER, Spring and Raj Bhavnani came back to the United States. Spring came back because of the decision of the seasons to keep on performing those rotations. Raj Bhavnani came back because of the decision of All India Radio and the Voice of America to put him in D.C. Armed with directions from a Hertz Rent-a-Car attendant at Dulles International Airport he was on his way from Virginia to the majestic, almost royal in appearance, entrance-way to the District of Columbia by crossing the Arlington Memorial Bridge.
No matter its authoritative grandeur, no one has to get dressed up nor do drivers have to get their cars washed to drive across that triumphal bridge to the District. But the splendor of the drive and the triumph of the sights on the close horizon as the drive continues gives rise to the feeling that this crossing of the Potomac River calls for a kind of formality. Ahead is the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument beyond it and farther off but still in sight, the Capitol Building, while off to the closer south-west side is the Jefferson Memorial. All in eyes-view.
Even the rear view mirror gives inspiration in a visual panorama of history: there is the easily seen John F. Kennedy Eternal Flame changing its form with any breeze as it gives its signals above
the grave of President Kennedy. And there is the wide expanse of Arlington Cemetery of over some four hundred thousand buried heroes from long ago all the way forward, even likely more in number today.
To the sides of the driving lanes of the bridge are the sidewalks for walking or, particularly in the early morning of the day, for running as joggers give their runs through the distance between Arlington and D.C.
With all of this magnificence going on it was totally out-of-context when Raj Bhavnani, driving across this sacred bridge, would press a button on the interior of the Hertz specially rented Cadillac Fleetwood to lower the front-seat passenger window and yell to a surprised jogger also going to the District, “If you would have left earlier you wouldn’t have to run!”
That sudden spurt of shouted advice would often cause a loss of stride in the jogger’s rhythm who, prior to Raj’s recommendation, had confidence in running along while thinking “Hey, you knuckle-heads who are driving, look at me! I am stronger and healthier than you, and by my running I am proving I am just a finer person than you are, you lazy lame-brained driving ignoramuses! Don’t forget to shift into third if you’re so proud of believing you’re building up the muscles in your right arm by shifting; fatso’s!”
Good for Raj to stop those self-praising thoughts of the morning joggers on the bridge. Those arrogant running exercise-nuts had it coming.
Raj Bhavnani was headed toward his assigned office on the third floor of the Old Post Office Building; a massive building that, although built in the last years of the 19th Century, looked like it could have been more appropriately been built in the early years of the 13th Century. It was topped by a clock tower and other than the Washington Monument, it was the highest structure in North West Washington D.C. towering above national memorials and the White House.
After pulling the rented Cadillac up to the building on Pennsylvania Avenue, his car was driven away by a tall, slender man in his sixties with an English accent who introduced himself as Anthony Jowett with the United States Information Agency who had been waiting for him to arrive. Mr. Jowett drove the Cadillac to the parking lot behind the building; the area unseen by Raj but shared with the parked cars of the Internal Revenue Service while Raj stood by the outdoor grand staircase of the Old Post Office Building waiting for the tall man to come back.
Raising the Baton Page 20