Laurel

I could have borrowed Thomas' car, but Laurel and her father drove to the Potter's House by themselves. Mr. Armington had a lively face that projected intelligence. He was lean. Although he may have been about sixty years old, his body had an energy that seemed to emanate from his mind.

When we entered the Potter's House the sound system was playing "In the Early Morning Rain," with Peter, Paul, & Mary.

When we were seated Laurel told me that her father taught classical languages at Georgetown University.

"When I was at the University of Maryland," I began, "we read Homer's Iliad in a literature class. I liked the part where King Agamemnon said to the Greek soldiers, 'Men we're never going to take Troy. Our families fear for our lives. Too many of us have died. Let's go home.' That was the way a lot of us felt in Vietnam.

"The soldiers started to run back to their ships. Of course, Agamemnon did not really mean that. He expected his men to demand to stay and fight. As they ran he ran with them and said, 'Hey wait a minute.'

"One of the things I appreciated about the Iliad is that Homer did not take sides in the Trojan War. You would expect him to side with the Greeks because he was Greek, but he portrayed the Trojan War as morally complex, tragic, and futile. My favorite character was Hector, the champion of the Trojans."

"That is an interesting aspect of the Iliad," Professor Armington said. "You should compare it with The Song of Roland. That is about a battle that happened in the eighth century between the Franks and the Muslims who had conquered Spain. The Muslims are described as barely human."

"The Greek tragic dramatists agreed with Homer about the Trojan War," Professor Armington continued. "My favorite Greek play is The Trojan Woman, by Euripides. The Greeks have taken Troy and killed all the men. The women and children are waiting to be taken back to Greece as slaves. The play concerns the fate of Astyanax, the son of Hector. Although Astyanax is only a boy, Odysseus talks the Greeks into killing him so that he will not avenge the death of his father."

"The convention of ancient Greek and Roman writers was that serious literature should concern the period of time from the creation of the world, to the immediate aftermath of the Trojan War. However, the old stories could be told in ways that conveyed contemporary messages. For example, The Trojan Women was written during the Peloponnesian War, which was fought between Athens and her allies and Sparta and her allies. The Athenian forces had just recently sacked the city of a Spartan ally, killed the men, and carried off the women and children as slaves. The Trojan Woman was Euripides's message of protest.

"It is easy for us moderns to condemn the Athenians. That kind of behavior was universal back then. What made the Athenians different was that they did not punish Euripides for writing his play. They performed it and honored him. Unlike everyone else at the time, with the possible exception of the Jews, the Athenians were morally evolved enough to examine their behavior."

Mitch Snyder's talk was about the ways the Community for Creative Non Violence was helping the homeless population in Washington, DC. When it was my turn to ask a question I said, "The Community for Community Non Violence began as an organization protesting against the War in Vietnam. The anti war movement was fashionable because fashionable young men studying at fashionable universities did not want to risk their lives in Vietnam.

"I'm not criticizing them," I continued. "I wish I had their opportunities. However, the homeless are not fashionable. Do you think you will be as successful in your new cause as you were in your previous one?"

Mitch Snyder looked down at the table in front of him for a long time, and began, "If we in the Community for Creative Non Violence were mainly interested in being successful we would probably be doing something else with our lives.

"Thousands of people in Washington, DC are sleeping outdoors tonight. Hundreds of thousands share their situation nationally. Many are combat veterans of Vietnam. They do not know where they will eat tomorrow, and where they will be when the sun goes down."

"When Evangelical Christians are faced with a moral dilemma they often ask themselves, 'What would Jesus do?' We in the Community for Creative Non Violence have asked ourselves the same question. What we are doing in the Community for Creative Non Violence is our answer."

Mitch was loudly applauded. Laurel, her father, and I joined the applause.

When the question and answer period was over, Father Ed Guinan, who had founded the CCNV in 1970, and who I had known from my previous association with the CCNV, introduced Mitch Snyder to Laurel, her father, and me. Father Guinan and Professor Armington already knew each other. I had read about Mitch Snyder in The Washington Post, but I had never met him before.

"When I saw you in the audience I told Mitch to get ready for a tough question," Father Guinan said.

"I hope it did not sound like a hostile question," I replied. Everyone here agreed the answer was better than my question."

I walked with Laurel and her father to their car. Then I returned to the Potter's House for a cup of cappuccino, before walking to work.

Two weeks later as I was walking home from work I passed the Circle Theater. That used to be on Pennsylvania Avenue several blocks to the west of the White House. The Circle Theater featured classic movies, many of them made in other countries. I saw that they were going to have a series of Soviet films made of classics of Russian literature. I took a program. As I walked further I stopped at a flower shop, and bought a flower bouquet.

When I called Laurel at her office there was chilliness in her voice that I did not like at all. When I mentioned the series on Soviet movies, she said she had become busy of late, and did not have time for it. When I asked if she would be interested in something later, she said, "No I really don't think so Roger. I've gotten back in touch with my boy friend. I don't think it would be a good idea."

When I did not say anything, Laurel said, "I'm sorry Roger."

"Don't let it bother you," I said before quietly hanging up the phone. I looked around quickly. Fortunately, no one had heard our conversation.

I walked back to my room, entered, and locked the door. The flower bouquet was on the table in the middle of the room. I sat down at the chair in front of the table. "It don't mean nothin'," I said softly. That was the laconic sentence we would sometimes say in Vietnam when something reminded us that nothing we attempted mattered. Women want to marry up, not down. What was I thinking?

I wanted to throw the flower bouquet away, but my room was fairly barren. On the wall was a glass case with my medals from the Marine Corps. Actually, they were not the medals I wore at the bar in National Airport. I threw those away at the Dewey Canyon 3 demonstrations. Six months later I missed them. I wrote a letter to the Pentagon telling them I had lost them, and asking for replacements. I received them with no questions asked. On the wall there was also a photograph of my parents and me, and one of several friends of mine including Steve Reed, and me in Vietnam. There were also two book shelves.

I wanted to go to a bar on 18th street and get blitzed. I thought it would be a better idea to calm down for a day. No matter what else happened to me I had to go to work every night and smile at the customers.

The next day after a nap I walked to a bar on 18th street where I knew the bartender. He had fought in Vietnam with the Army. Sometimes we talked about the War. Usually we tried to forget. When I walked in, the television was on, but no one was watching it. "Hi, Bill," I said. Is it OK if I play the jukebox?"

"Sure Roger," Bill said, before turning down the television, opening the cash register and giving me several quarters. "Here. You make good selections."

I played several songs, sat at the counter, and ordered a glass of wine.

"Did you watch the game last night?" Bill asked.

"No, I missed it."

"You didn't miss much. You're not much of a football fan are you?"

"I watch it when I come here. I like boxing. Keep your eyes on Sugar Ray Leonard. He is making boxing history."

"He has a lot of fans here."

I wanted to talk to Bill about Laurel. Women seem to have an easy time talking about that kind of thing. Men want their friends to think that the only problem they have with women is one of selection. I don't know why. We don't want to think that of anyone else.

I tipped generously, and left.

A year passed. The flower bouquet dried and turned brown. I never threw it away.

On the anniversary of Steve Reed's death I met with members of his family at the church they attended in Anacostia in South East Washington. Together with their minister we visited Steve's grave in Arlington National Cemetery. They left flowers. I planted a small American flag next to the tomb stone. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Semper Fi -- Always faithful.

I did not go back to the Italian restaurant.

One evening I was at the Potter's House, sitting next to the bas relief of St. Peter portraying him as he realized that he had just denied Jesus three times as Jesus told him he would.

While I was sitting there drinking an espresso, Professor Armington walked in, and sat next to the window. I did not really want to talk to him, and wished I could have left through the rear exit. The Potter's House does not have a rear exit.

When Professor Armington noticed me, I had no choice but to walk over to his table. He stood up. We shook hands. "Professor Armington, how do you do?" I asked.

"Quite well, Roger. Please sit down. I had hoped to see more of you."

"I would have enjoyed it too," I said, before asking, because there was nothing else to ask, "How is Laurel?"

Professor Armington looked serious. "I guess you wouldn't know. We always knew she had a heart ailment. We never expected her to live as long as she did. She passed away two months ago."

"I am sorry to hear about it," I said. "Her boyfriend must have been devastated."

Professor Armington looked at me with an expression of vague understanding. "You were the only one I knew about," he said. "We wanted to tell you, but we did not know what your address or phone number was. Before she died she wrote a letter to you. Do you want it?"

Trying to control my emotions I said, "Yes of course."

Professor Armington drove me to his house, which was off 16th Street near Maryland. The house looked much older than the late nineteenth century row houses next to it. "My house was an eighteenth century farm house," he explained.

We walked inside. The walls were covered with book shelves containing books in five different languages. Over the hearth was a large photograph of a teenage Laurel, a younger Professor Amington, and a woman who could have only been Laurel's mother.

When Professor Armington gave me the sealed envelope he said, "Laurel is interred in our family mausoleum in Rock Creek Cemetery. The Armington family used to be economically and socially prominent in Washington. We lost most of our wealth in the Panic of 1893, and the rest of it in the Stock Market Crash of 1929. Fortunately, I have always had a gift for languages. I was a translator for the Army during the War." He paused for a moment, before adding for me that that was the Second World War.

"After the War I got a PhD at Georgetown in Latin and Greek, and a teaching position there. Laurel got a Master's Degree in social work there."

"I want to visit Laurel's grave," I said. "Could you write a map for me?"

"Of course," he said, getting a piece of paper. It is easy to find. Take the main walkway toward the church. Veer toward the left when the walkway forks. The Armington mausoleum will be past the church, on the right. It is made of red bricks into the hillside.

"I am a member of the congregation at the church. I hope to see you at church sometime."

"Which service do you attend?"

"10:30."

"I will see you this Sunday."

"I will look forward to it," Professor Armington said. After a pause he added, "Don't stay a stranger. This has become a lonely house for me. After my wife died I still had Laurel."

We hugged each other gently. Then he drove me to my rooming house. I felt a vague apprehension about the letter I could not understand, and did not want to read it quite yet. First I lay it next to the flower bouquet. Then I thought my room might be broken into, so I put it in my Bible, and put the Bible back in the book shelf.

That night, at the Airport Motel, when I took my nap I dreamed about Laurel. In my dream we watched Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment at the Circle Theater.

The month was January. The weather was very cold with a brisk wind. When I got back to my room I still hesitated to read Laurel's letter. I got something to eat, and went to sleep. When I woke up I washed and dressed. Finally I was ready to read Laurel's letter.

I locked the door to my room, and sat at my table, looking at the envelope next to the flower bouquet. I cut open the envelope carefully with a knife, and read:

"Dearest Roger,

"Ever since I was very young I have known that I would never grow old..."

Well, I will not share the entire letter with you. I will say that she told me she tried never to become involved with anyone, knowing it could not last. When she saw me at the Washington Cathedral she sensed a kindred soul. Then she thought it would be unfair to encourage me. When lying in the hospital bed she wanted to communicate with me.

She ended it with, "I have tried not to fall in love with any man. If I did, he is reading this now.

Love,

Laurel"

I folded the letter, put it back into the envelope, and put it on the table. "It does mean something," I said out loud.

I put on my Navy pea coat, and a Russian style hat, took the flower bouquet, and left my rooming house. Soon I was walking along New Hampshire Avenue to Rock Creek Cemetery. The sky was overcast. The air was bitterly cold. The wind was over twenty miles an hour in my face. I had to step carefully to avoid slipping on a patch of ice from the last snow storm.

I approached the necropolis I looking at the grey tombstones, mausoleums, and statues under the grey sky.

After I entered the main gate of the cemetery I had an easy time finding the Armington mausoleum. I looked into the door. Most of the plaques were old and difficult to read. I could read:

Ellen Armington

1930 -- 1972

and

Laurel Armington

1954 -- 1979

I do not cry often. I cried when my parents died. I cried when a madevac helicopter disappeared into the sky with a body bag containing what remained of Steve Reed.

I cried now. "Laurel," I said into the mausoleum. "I could have made your last year a happy one."

There was no container for flowers, so I left Laurel's bouquet on the ground next to the door of the mausoleum. I walked out of the main gate as an attendant was preparing to close and lock it. The sun had set. The wind had died down. Snow was beginning to fall.

The End