Lesington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 52-53

 

Chapter 52

Brookline, Massachusetts

November

 “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.” Daphne sat in Florence’s studio. She had commandeered the cupola on the third floor of the French Consul General’s home in Brookline.

“Far enough away from any chance somebody will wander in when we entertain and there’s a WC just at the bottom of the stairs.” Florence waved to the door.

Although it was a cloudy day, the windows around the cupola let in enough light that even without the spotlights that had been installed for Florence, she had the illumination she needed to work either on the computer or on her drawing board.

“You like them? They’re still preliminary.” Florence had created the drawings for the comic book on computer but had printed off paper copies for Daphne and handed her a pencil in case she wanted to make any changes or notes.

Daphne was sitting at the drawing board. A table to the right had the same drawing on an enlarged computer screen.

“You’ve translated my story ideas … well, I’m not sure how to say it.”

“I like brilliant.”

Abigail was shown feeding the chickens and churning butter. Another panel showed her eavesdropping on a meeting of the local Sons of Liberty, who were plotting on how to get the cannons from the firebox at the writing school on Boston Common out to the countryside.

The plan to move them by cart hidden under hay or maybe even manure was shown in a bubble over Abigail’s father head.

Abigail’s twin brother Adam was allowed to be at the meeting. As a girl, she was not.

“Nothing like making a feminist statement while we’re at it,” Florence said. She went to the coffee machine to the right of the entrance and made two espressos. “Sugar?”

Daphne shook her head. She was entranced by Abigail’s face. The girl was beautiful. She could have walked off the paper and found a job modeling anywhere in the world.

What Daphne had found particularly difficult to do was to create the condensed speech balloons, but she and Florence had decided that they could write one or two sentences at the bottom of each panel to increase the storyline. Words were economical but dense.

Gareth had noticed that she was no longer going to the library as often. “Too cold,” Daphne had said.

What she did the moment he left was to work on the storyline. When the words wouldn’t come, she would search the internet for images of furniture, house interiors and exteriors, dishes and clothing she had not found in books. These she e-mailed to Florence. Many of them were incorporated into the drawings.

As for the exterior backgrounds, the two women had spent three days taking photos of the area and houses.

“Your stone wall is unbelievable.” Daphne saw how Abigail was walking on a path along the wall, arguing with her father to be allowed to go to Boston with him and Adam to retrieve the cannon from the schoolhouse. The balloon over her head said, “They’ll never think a girl would hide a cannon.”

“There wasn’t a girl in that wagon as far as we know.” Daphne was bothered that Florence had changed her text where Abigail wanted to go with her father, and he said no.

“How historically accurate do we have to be?” Florence asked.

“As close as possible,” Daphne said.

“Think of the movie Braveheart.”

“Do I have to? It was historically incorrect.” The two women seldom disagreed. One would make a suggestion. The other would add to it strengthening the final result.

“But it makes a better a story,” Florence said.

Before Daphne could say anything Florence made another stab. “You told me the stolen cannon was moved in a wagon covered with manure. We have fictious characters throughout the comic book. A kid reading the comic book won’t care if we don’t have the real name of the wagon owner much less a passenger. The manure is accurate.”

Before Daphne could respond, Florence said, “The girls reading the comic book would find the feisty Abigail much more appealing if she was more participatory.”

“But …”

“Women in those days needed to be strong. I need to do more tweaking on the parts about the battle itself. Maybe we should have her dress in Adam’s clothes.”

“Would she be able to shoot a gun?” Florence asked.

“Probably. It’s probably too late for danger from Indians, but since she’s living in the country, we can have her hunt with her brother and father.”

Florence looked at her watch. “I have this stupid luncheon with the accompanying wives in an hour. Take the drawings home and get back on what you think?”

Daphne had been planning to stay longer.

“I thought I had escaped it, but at the last minute, but Charlotte twisted my arm.”

“You don’t need to explain. We’re in the same situation.”

Florence’s phone rang.

Daphne motioned she could leave to give her friend privacy.

Instead, Florence put it on speaker. “Hello, Jason.”

At first Daphne thought he might be a boyfriend the way they phone flirted, then Jason said, “How about lunch next Monday?” adding, “And bring your partner.”

Florence looked at Daphne, who put her hands out as if to say, “I don’t understand.”

“Daphne’s here with me, Jason. Daphne, you free next Monday?”

Daphne nodded.

“By the way, Daphne meet Jason, Jason meet Daphne.”

“Hi, Daphne.”

“Hello, Jason.”

“Gotta run, Sweetheart. See you and Daphne next Monday.”

“What was that about?”

“Jason and I had a lot of classes together when I took night classes. He’s a Commissioning Editor at Grayson, Inc.”

“And that’s . . .”

“An educational publisher. He wants to see what we’ve got done. I didn’t want to get your hopes up until he agreed to look at our work.”

Chapter 53

Boston, Massachusetts

January 1775

 

 THE BARRACKS WERE strangely quiet when James walked into the room that he shared with many of his regiment. It was the first time he’d been there since becoming ill. He dropped his knapsack on his cot. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched since he’d made it the morning he had left.

Where was everyone? He hadn’t seen any marching troops outside, but almost 18 inches of snow had fallen on the parade ground in the last 48 hours. Maybe there were lectures and classes going on in the lecture rooms.

He wasn’t sure what he should do or to whom he should report. After Dr. Church had left last night, the General had told him to go back to his barracks the next morning. It was time for him to catch up with his regular duties.

He was to report back to the General after the weekend when the General and several top commanders would meet to make plans on how to find missing weapons. They still weren’t sure to where they had been whisked: Charlestown, Arlington, Concord, Salem were all possibilities. “As much as I appreciate all that you do, James, a time may come that I will need every soldier on the battlefield. If there’s a God in heaven, I hope it never comes to that, but we must be ready.”

James found it hard to imagine Englishmen fighting Englishmen. He’d seen how the locals, if not born in England, first-, second-, third- or fourth-generation Englishmen, taunted the soldiers, but that was minor compared to overall war. He had heard about the damage a civil war could cause, although many of his fellow soldiers hadn’t. He knew probably because Oliver Cromwell, who had overthrown King Charles many years ago was from Ely. What bothered him was how any war could be called civil.

He hadn’t expected to fight when he joined the army. Maybe that was naïve, but many other soldiers said the same thing. They joined to change their lives, as he had. He joined for adventure, to forget the loss of his wife, to get away from his brother’s domination and be his own person.

Being given a state-of-the-art Brown Bess in comparison to the old weapon he used in Ely to shoot rabbits had been a thrill. It wasn’t that he was a gun lover, but he appreciated its slickness and efficiency.

The hours of practicing loading, the thoroughness of their training down to where they should put their fingers was fascinating. It was also a challenge to be the best he could possibly be. Why, he wondered, did he not realize in his heart that he might be called on to kill people, lots of people in the name of the King. Dumb, dumb, dumb, he chided himself.

James put his belongings in the footlocker at the end of his cot. As he turned the key, he realized he wasn’t alone. He turned. Corporal Tilley stood in the doorway.

“You’re back. How are you?” Tilley had lost weight and was pale as the snow that had fallen last night. A dark beard made his skin look even whiter. He was not in uniform.

“Getting better. And you?”

“Still not back on duty, but I’m out of the infirmary. What a stink. Shit everywhere, vomit everywhere. The doctor himself got sick. They brought in women to act as nurses, but they couldn’t keep up with it all.”

“I’m sorry.” Had James been more religious he’d have thanked God that his accommodations and treatment were privileged. He might say so to God but never to Corporal Tilley.

“Where is everyone?”

“Five men are still in the infirmary. Six have died. The rest are getting lectures.”

“Who died?”

Tilley sat on James’ cot and suggested with a hand movement that James sit next to him. When he did, Tilley took a deep breath and rattled off five names.

James had liked most of the men. It was sad he’d never see them again. Never share a bit of polish for their boots. Never sit at the same table and complain about the porridge. They would cover for each other when one was late getting back to the barracks.

“You said six, but you only mentioned five names.”

Tilley’s eyes wandered around the room before looking straight into James’. “I’m sorry, the sixth is, was, your friend Thomas Miller.”

*****

James sat on his cot and stared at his hands. Corporal Tilley had left him alone saying he needn’t go to any morning lecture. “This afternoon, after lunch, will be soon enough.”

James wasn’t sure how to feel. Thomas couldn’t be dead. They had been friends since they were both in diapers. They’d gone to school together, although Thomas had left two years before James to work with his father.

If he hadn’t let Isaac search for Thomas to bring him to the recruiter that day in Ely, his friend might still be alive. Thomas might be married and have a son of his own. Telling himself that did not help James feel better. Nor did the knowledge that Thomas liked the Army better than he did and was more than happy with his decision to join.

Tears built up behind his eyes. He wouldn’t let them escape.

It wasn’t the army that had killed his friend, it was the stupid sickness, James told himself. That could have happened anywhere. Illnesses devastated Ely from time to time. He could have tripped into the fire when preparing a horseshoe. A horse he was shoeing could have kicked and killed him.

None of these thoughts soothed James.

Loss: losing his parents had produced grief, but it was the normal flow of life. It was different with his wife and new baby. When he lost her, he felt as if someone had beaten him inside and out. That losing Thomas hurt, but less than his wife, didn’t help much.

People died all the time — the young, the old because of illness, accidents and more rarely murder. Grief followed. He didn’t want to get good at grief.

James knew he wasn’t at full strength. Even the walk from the Governor’s mansion to the barracks had left him with wobbly legs. He needed to get out of there but to where?

He put on an extra shirt under his uniform. Only a few steps outside reminded him that his woolen winter coat could not keep out the cold even with the collar pulled up. It came to the middle of his head. He wore the tricorne hat not the bearskin: that would have been warmer. Both would leave his ears vulnerable to the wind sweeping in from the harbor.

The sky was almost dark blue after the storm. Not even a cloud wisp was to be seen.

He shuffled through the snow to the Common where tents had once created a cloth city housing hundreds of troops in neat rows. Now it was a white flat field of pristine snow. Not a footprint of man, bird or beast was visible. He decided to use the street that surrounded the Common.

Even on the sidewalk snow came to his knees, but it was soft and fluffy, not the wet kind that was good for snowballs. He was grateful no kids were on the street to lob them at his uniform.

Shop owners were shoveling the sidewalks in front of their shops. As he passed a few of them scowled at him. What did they expect? Him to shovel?

He wasn’t sure where he was going. It didn’t really matter, because his destination would not change anything. Thomas was dead.

                                                        ***** 

He found himself outside the Boston Gazette. The area in front of the newspaper office had been shoveled. When he opened the door, a bell tinkled.

The office had no counter. A printing press occupied one corner. Shelves held old copies of the newspapers in neat stacks. An open round-top desk had notes shoved in holes at the back. Papers were scattered in no particular order at the front. A pot with several quill pens, bottles of black ink and an ebony-handled knife peeked from piles of papers.

Two tables were to the left of the press. Mollie Clark, wearing an ink-stained apron, sat at a table in front of boxes of lead letters. She was arranging them in lines creating a click every time she dropped one into its new place. The click-click-click-click was constant.

She looked up. The clicking stopped. “It’s you.”

He nodded.

She wiped her hands on a cloth to the left of the tray of finished words leaving more black marks from the residue of the ink on the metal letters. “I haven’t seen you for a while. You’re buying our paper somewhere else?”

“I haven’t bought it at all. I’ve been really sick.”

“I heard lots of lobsterbacks had the bloody flux. At least you’ve kept it to yourselves.”

Her voice was musical, her accent local. He knew her father, Benjamin Edes, was born in the area. He was on the General’s troublemaker watch list.

One of James’ assignments had been to find out as much as he could about Edes. He had not progressed very far before he’d been taken ill other than Edes was a third generation local and had an ancestor that had something to do with Harvard’s founding or maybe that was his wife’s family.

James couldn’t very well tell the General the part of Edes family that really interested him the most was the fair Mollie, a widow with no children. No spy was needed to know where Edes’ sympathies lay. The newspaper’s contents made it obvious.

Unlike some of his fellow soldiers, he never had gone to the brothel on Endicott Street just like he didn’t patronize some of the tents that sold liquor outside the army’s tents despite the officers’ objections.

It wasn’t morals that kept James celibate and sober. He may have loved his beer and cider, but as soon as he drank too much, he vomited. He hated vomiting. He hated hangovers. As for sex, the memory of his love life with his wife warmed him and his hand did the rest.

When he’d first seen Mollie, he thought maybe someday he’d be ready for another woman in his life. Although he was just beginning to imagine having another woman he cared about, he promised himself to hold a part of his feelings back to never hurt as much if he lost her.

Many of his fellow soldiers, who saved their money to go to the brothel to “scratch my itch,” invited him to join them. He always found a reason not to. If a soldier who wanted to go was on guard duty, money changed hands and the soldier was off with a smile and James’ stash grew.

If people, fellow soldiers or locals, knew he had some hidden funds, he might be an object for robbery. His pay didn’t go all that far after the army deducted for food, clothing and other expenses.

He didn’t want to reveal that he was saving for when his contract finished to set himself up. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Boston needed a good bakery. Like all privates working for officers, there was monetary recompense. His funds were growing.

“Do you like bread, good bread?” What a stupid question he thought as soon as the words fell from his mouth, but he had to keep her talking to him.

Mollie folded the towel she had used to wipe her hands. “What?”

He repeated the question.

“I eat a lot of it.”

“Do you make your own?”

“I’m too busy. I usually eat with my parents.”

He wondered where she lived. “And is it good? The bread that is? Not living with your parents.”

“I don’t live with them. I have the house my husband and I shared before he died.” She folded her arms across her chest. “This is a strange conversation.”

I’m a strange person, he thought but didn’t say it. His experiences growing up in Ely made him feel like an outsider because he often thought differently from his family and to a certain extent his friends. He had become good at pretending he thought the same way they did. The only person he ever told of his real feelings and ideas was his wife, and she just nodded never saying he was wrong. Any hope he had had that he would feel he belonged in the army had crashed during training.

“I was a baker before I joined the army.”

He was beginning to feel dizzy.

She nodded. “Where’s your friend who comes in with you?”

James needed to sit. His hands began to shake. “He died. Bloody flux.” The tears he’d been holding back burst forth and he couldn’t stop.

Mollie immediately locked the door and flipped the open sign to closed. She covered the windows with curtains, hiding the newspaper office from passersby. She moved to his side pulling the chair where she’d been sitting and forced him to sit.

He hated being so weak in front of her.

She gathered him into her arms. He could feel the softness of her breasts behind the roughness of her apron.

Between thinking of Thomas and the fool he was making of himself, he couldn’t stop sobbing no matter how much he wanted to.

He heard her say, “Take deep breaths.”

He did as he was told. Slowly he raised his head and started to stand up. The room seemed to move. He sat back down with a thump.

Mollie realized what was happening. She shoved his head between his legs. “It’ll be all right. Just take your time.”

She must think him a total weakling, he worried. “I’m sorry. This is my first day out after being sick and …”

“Too soon, I’d say. And losing your friend on top of it. When did you find out?”

He lacked the strength to argue.

“An hour ago. At the most.”

“Can you sit here if I leave you? You won’t fall off the chair or anything?”

He shook his head.

Mollie went behind the curtain at the back of newspaper office. He heard her rustling around. She came back with a mug. “Drink this.”

He did and almost spit it out. “What is it?”

“Rum and apple juice. Finish it. When you’re a little stronger, I’ll walk you back to the barracks.”

Despite all his protests, she wouldn’t let him go alone. Her alternative suggestion that she go to the barracks and find someone to help him back was worse.

More of the sidewalks had been shoveled since earlier but there were still places that they needed to kick their way through white fluff. He noticed Mollie’s dress from the hem to just below her knees was snow covered. It would be wet when she went into the warmth.

At the barracks door, she said, “I think you’ll be fine from here.”

Since he wasn’t sure what to say, he said nothing.

“I need to get back to setting my type. I don’t think I saw anyone I know. If word reaches my father that I’m walking with the enemy, he’ll be furious.”

“Am I the enemy?”

“Maybe not you, but what you represent is.”

He tried to thank her, but she just waved her hand.

What would he say, if we walked together and I wasn’t in uniform?”

She smiled. “I’ll have to think about it.”

 

Confessions of an Ex American Part 111

One of the saddest days

This was written the day I renounced.

Part of me will always love the man I thought my ex-husband was. After trying everything, I divorced the real man.

Part of me will always love the country I thought I grew up in. Like trying to save my marriage, I tried everything. I’ve made hundreds of overseas calls to Congress and sent thousands of emails. I’ve followed legislation from committee to signing. Most was about Bill of Rights issues such as the loss of habeas corpus. If the president does not veto the new amendment just passed by the Senate, than the military will have the power to arrest anyone, anywhere with no charges, no trial indefinitely. I have made no calls and sent no emails on this one. I am disengaging.

Today I divorced my country. The decision was not easily reached with too many facets to recount here just like I won’t recount the whys of my divorce to my ex-husband.

The U.S. Consulate is in Bern. The rain on my umbrella drowned out normal street sounds.

I was told I could tap on the door. A guard came out and growled I couldn’t bring in my pocketbook.

“What should I do?”

“Leave it in your car?”

“I haven’t a car.”

“The bakery down the street to the right will keep it for you. Three Swiss Francs.”

The woman at the bakery was friendly and told me I also had to leave my phone, my camera and my medicine. I could take my wallet and my passport.

Back at the consulate there was an airport-type examination, and then I went down stairs for a second examination. This man was friendly and we chatted as I waited my turn.

A woman called my name and asked for verification on the information I already provided.

Then the Counsel came out, a thin man with glasses.

He told me that my decision was irrevocable—I could never live or work in the U.S. again. I could never get my citizenship back--not tomorrow - not in 30 years. I signed that I understood.

He asked me to raise my right hand and swear that I was renouncing. My eyes blurred. “Are you certain you want to go through with it?”

Then I had to take a second oath. “What if I change my mind here?” I asked. I didn’t want to change my mind, I was just curious.

“Then I would take this back and we could probably . . .”

I shook my head. “It hurts, but I’m sure.” I took the second vow.

Within two weeks to two months I will get my cancelled passport and my certificate of renunciation. I will then pay $450. I can take that around to the banks so I can resume normal banking relations because I will not be subject to U.S. FATCA legislation that has caused so many problems for Americans and will continue to cause problems and other financial institutions. If Switzerland and the US do not come to agreement about the US having access to Swiss police records, it is possible I would need a visa to enter the U.S. It is also possible I wouldn't get one. I knew when I started this that I might never be able to enter the U.S. again.

Leaving the consulate to retrieve my bag at the bakers, I vomited.

Like the day I was divorced, this was one of the saddest of my life. I don't regret the choice. 

Note: For the next few years I have worked in various degree of intensities to get FATCA withdrawn. The fee went up to $2350 and only now, the third weekend in March 2026, has it been dropped back to the $450. I've appeared on Swiss Television and been quoted in most American papers. My Swiss doctor was shocked to find my name in a Canadian paper when he was taking his daughter to university there.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 50-51

 

Chapter 50

Boston, Massachusetts

January 1775

 

 

DR. BENJAMIN CHURCH stood outside the Governor’s mansion front door. He stamped his feet and brushed snow off his cloak to keep from tracking any inside to a minimum.

Rather than wait for the maid to answer the door, the General opened the door himself, his hand outstretched. “Welcome, welcome.”

The doctor dropped his medical bag and handed his cloak to the maid standing behind the General.

Church wore his wig, although Gage did not. “I suppose I should take a gander at young Holloway.”

“He’ll be eating with us this evening, Dr. Church.” Mrs. Gage had followed her husband into the hallway. “I’ll add my welcome. I hope you’re hungry.

“Famished. I was in Concord this morning where I had my breakfast but not a bite since then.”

James was already seated at the table with its blue-flowered patterned china and crystal wine glasses. He rose when the Doctor and Gages entered. Because of the heavy oriental carpet covering the parquet flooring, there were no sounds of chairs being pulled out and pushed back as they seated themselves.

The smell of roasting meat wafted in from the kitchen located next to the dining room.

“Will you say grace, Dr. Church?” Mrs. Gage asked.

James was surprised. Since he had been out of bed, he had taken all of his meals with the family. No one had said grace. The four of them joined hands.

“Dear Lord, thank you for the meal we are about to receive. We are grateful for your help in preserving the peace in these trying times. May you grant us the wisdom and strength to persevere to do your mission on earth and to save our precious King. Amen.”

“That was lovely, Dr. Church.” Mrs. Gage rang a small bell to the left of her fork.

The maid appeared with a pork roast surrounded by carrots and onions. She set it in front of the General to carve, which he did with flare. When everyone was served the meal and a red wine poured, he said, “Eat everything, James. You must rebuild your strength.”

“His stomach is still delicate, General. Eat what you are comfortable with, Holloway,” Dr. Church said.

The General had a piece of meat halfway to his mouth. He frowned as if to say, “I’m not used to being corrected. I don’t like it.” Instead, he said, “Let’s not waste any more time. Although we shouldn’t discuss affairs over a good meal, if we wait until after dinner, the snow will make it harder for you to go home, Church.”

James noted that the General did not use doctor in addressing his guest. Over the months that he’d been an orderly, he had observed multiple ways people spoke and positioned themselves physically that were heavy with multiple meanings.

“I appreciate that, Gage. The shorter my stay, if anyone sees me coming and going, they will assume I’m doing my doctorly duty for poor James here.”

“Rather than selling secrets,” James thought, although he doubted that Dr. Church was being paid. Or maybe he was. James did not like the doctor, even if he had taken excellent care of him. Cranesbill and witch hazel had helped early on, although James and the chamber pot had been constant companions until two weeks ago.

During most of his illness, even the idea of eating had made James want to vomit. He accepted the broth force-fed him by Mrs. Gage spoonful by spoonful. Swallowing was preferable to throwing up on the good lady.

For the first time since he had fallen ill, the food on his plate looked a bit appealing. He brought his attention back to the conversation.

“Your letters have been very informative,” the General said, “I do hope that you are disguising your handwriting in case they fall into the wrong hands.”

“And I’m sure you are destroying them after digesting them.”

“Of course.”

The General was lying, James knew. The letters were filed in chronological order, because he was the one who filed them. Some he had copied for forwarding to London. In some cases, the General had added notes, actions taken and recommendations. Perhaps he wanted a record if his superiors in London challenged his decisions. James would never ask. His position was strange enough, and he wasn’t about to take any liberties, although he accepted those volunteered by the General.

Financially, he was being paid extra for his time with the General, which was typical of soldiers serving in officers’ homes as domestic servants. He wondered if he would be paid for staying in bed, acting as a decoy for Dr. Church. He had no intention of asking.

“I’ve news of a new committee being formed.” Dr. Church cut his carrots into smaller pieces. He sipped his wine indicating with a facial expression it was to his liking. “The Committee of Supply. They’re preparing for war.”

“Weapons? Gun powder? “Not planning to steal more cannons? I haven’t heard of any more missing.”

“Yes and no.”

“Which is it? Is there a difference between it and the Committee of Safety?” The General slapped the table so hard with his hand that the wine glasses quivered. “I’m so damned tired of this committee and that committee and all of them against our King.”

Dr. Church nodded. “They’ve only been meeting since November, Gage, the Committee of Safety, that is.”

James noted that Dr. Church was not in the least cowed by the General. Perhaps as a leading surgeon from a respected local family, he felt he was an equal. Or perhaps it was because the government run by the British were losing power to the local governments that were being formed in the different towns surrounding the city. Dr. Church, James thought, was covering himself no matter what happened.

“They’re preparing for a possible war,” Church said.

“They wouldn’t be that damned stupid. Country bumpkins against the power of England. We’ve had a civil war with Cromwell, and we all know that was a disaster.”

“I’m not sure they know of it. It would have been their grandparents or great grandparents or even great-great. Many of the people here now have been here for two, three generations so their awareness of events so long ago in another country …” Church cut a piece of meat, but did not put it into his mouth “… is limited.”

Throughout the exchange Mrs. Gage and James did not move or speak. Their eyes would meet. James wished he could read her mind. He suspected by little things she said or didn’t say that she felt some sympathy for the locals but would not cross her husband.

“And what is this Committee of Safety doing?”

“Not just weapons. Remember almost every person has his own musket. They are laying in salt pork, flour, rice and other foods that will last. Mess bowls. They are looking for tools, shovels, spades.”

The General sat back in his chair. He played with his fork. “I’m not sure what rag tag farmers can do with shovels against our well-trained force.”

“They’re training, too. And they are using your manuals, especially on weapons.”

Again, the General leaned forward. “We must find those cannons. We must destroy their supplies. I don’t see any other way to stave off a conflict.” 

Chapter 51

Geneva, Switzerland

May

I’VE GONE OVER the previous 128 pages and done my first round of corrections before continuing. Because we were in quarantine, there were fewer distractions.

I think I can see the end as we get closer to the April Lexington battle. I know where I’m going with Daphne, Gareth and Florence, although that doesn’t mean I won’t change.

My husband wants to see what I’ve written so he can read it on his flight from Toulouse to Dallas next week. We are out of quarantine in time for him to see his grandkids in Dallas and attend the aviation conference in Florida.

I haven’t told him about these insertions, but he will notice my new working title Anatomy of a Novel: Lexington. I already visualize the cover. I’m curious about his reaction. What will I do if he hates it?

 

 

Confessions of an Ex-American Part II

Although I planned to get Swiss Citizenship, I did not plan to give up my American. I worked my way through Swiss Permis A, B and C. I had to be a resident 12 years to apply for the passport. It took another three years eight months and three days and a number of interviews at the village, canton and national levels plus much paperwork for acceptance.

In my final interview I was asked if I'd seen the morning paper with a story about corruption of a government building. They were aghast when I said it was wonderful until I explained that a problem cannot be corrected until it is known. They laughed when I said the last French book I read was a translation by Mary Higgins Clark but that I read Amélie Nothrom, even though she is Belgian.

The big day came for me to take my oath. I symbolically threw my paper Permis B in the trash. A man in a Medieval hat and cloak led the 90 future citizens through the Alabama Room. Yes, Alabama for a treaty that concluded the American Civil War involving Britain which was signed there in 1872.

My first ballot package was on my seat and I voted in my first Swiss Election a few days later. We took the oath of citizenship, sang the national anthem (I sang softly because I have a terrible voice) and then went to another hall for pan surprise, champage and a gift picture book about Geneva.

As a news junkie, I continued to follow the news in several countries including the U.S. A colleague of mine, another American taking Swiss nationality and I followed U:S. politics, especially legislation we cared about and I made a lot of calls to Congress on issues I cared about. I started the conversations saying, "I'm an ex-pat and I vote. I didn't always say in another state  or district.

In October, I was spending a month writing in my Southern French Studio that I had bought for $18,000. The postman brought the ballot. In French, I said, "Good. I can vote for the American president."

"Who are you voting for."

"Obama."

"Good, I'll give you the ballot."

At the post when I handed the ballot in the person asked whom I was voting for. When I told her, she said she wouldn't throw it away. I don't know if they were joking.

All went well until Carl Levin and Elise Bean among other congress people created FATCA, a 2010 U.S. federal law requiring all non-U.S. foreign financial institutions (FFIs) to search their records for customers with indicators of a connection to the U.S., including records of birth or prior residency in the U.S. 

Every cent an American earns anywhere in the world is subject to U.S. taxation even if the money never touched U.S. soil. It is the only country that requires this. It also applies to Green Card holders who have left the country and will never return and will never earn any more money in the U.S.

As a result my bank told me they would close my account. If they were caught with an American on their books, they would be shut out of the U.S. market and pay huge penalties. 

People who had fiduciary responsibility in companies or other organizations lost their positions under the bank threat. It wasn't just Switzerland, it was all over the world. The application of FATCA varied.

Other Americans were threatened with account closings. Mortgages and loans were called in. It applies to insurance and any other financial programs.

My bank gave me time to renounce to get the Certificate of Loss of Nationality from the U.S. Government.

Tomorrow, I will write about the process of going to the Embassy to renounce and on Sunday my continued fight with others.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch.48-49

 

Chapter 48 I think

Boston, Massachusetts

November

 

 

“WE NEED TO compare agendas.” Gareth entered the bedroom at 5:17 p.m., much earlier than usual. He had already removed his suitcoat and loosened his tie. He rummaged in his closet for a hangar. Many nights he was required to attend dinners or events either alone or with Daphne, but this was a free evening.

Then again there were those nights that he stayed at the consulate to win the paperwork war. New staff was helping with the problem, but training took time.

“Daphne sat at her dressing table. She turned to look at him. What she wanted to say was, “Hello, Love, how are you?” but instead when she saw his scowl, she went over to him and put her hand on his arm. “Bad day?”

“Two of the three new women we hired quit.” He shook off her hand and pulled a hangar out of the closet and hung his jacket on it aligning it with other jackets before putting his tie on the tie rack.

After removing his pants, he neatly folded them over another hangar. Then he dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He padded across the room in his stocking feet. “What’s for dinner? We can do the agendas then.”

“I hadn’t planned anything because I didn’t know you were coming home.” That morning, he’d told her he’d be late. “Why did they quit?”

“Don’t change the subject. Is it too much to expect a meal after a hard day?”

“We can order out. Chinese? Japanese? Italian?”

“I’m going for a walk to clear my head. I’ll decide when I get back.” He slammed the door of the bedroom. A few seconds later he came back to get his sneakers. He slammed the bedroom door a second time. She heard his footsteps going down the hall. It was too far away to hear if he slammed the entryway door.

Daphne went back to her dressing table in the corner. It doubled as a desk.

Repeated questions to herself on whether she should continue her marriage were beginning to bore her. A friend once said, a woman should always talk to ex-girlfriends or wives before getting seriously involved with any male. She never learned the names of Gareth’s previous girlfriends.

Still, their early weekends in Boston had been wonderful. She wasn’t sure when browsing in bookstores or reading the Sunday papers in bed with the smell of fresh coffee coming from their kitchen changed to his snipping at her.

She had been so sure that she finally had found someone who not only knew history but the current politics of many countries. He fascinated her. So many of the men she’d dated thought mainly of sports and although Gareth cheered for Manchester United, his interest was to check the final score.

Sexually, they’d been a good fit. After the first-time unease, which was more or less eliminated by passion, they had aligned their needs. Except for the last three weeks when Gareth was much too tired. She debated slipping him a Viagra so he would have no choice.

All marriage requires adjustments, she thought. Add in an international move, a job that was understaffed, it was no wonder he was so uptight so often. He had refused to let her come in and at least answer the phone or catch up on filing, paper or electronic, to free up one of the remaining staff members to do more important things.

“You job is to be my charming wife for dinners and events,” he’d said.

Daphne sighed as she turned to the mirror behind the laptop on her dressing table/desk. In a way she was lucky that she didn’t have to worry about a lot of the things a couple setting up a home had to worry about. It wasn’t her style to fuss about the color of walls and matching drapes and upholstery.

The temporary flat had come totally furnished, and if it were not to her taste, the style would have looked perfect in a Hercules Poirot mystery.

It was fun living there. She looked to the left of her dressing table next to the window and its view of Comm Ave. The trees which were covered in pink blossoms when they had arrived in the spring and had settled into their summer green colors, then turned red and dropped to the ground leaving bare branches.

The windows were thick enough that no matter how much traffic was below, it was silent inside. During the summer, air conditioning had kept the flat free of the humidity and high temperatures that could often feet like a bucket of hot water thrown over her body when she went out. Now that it was cold, the heating system was individually controlled. As English they learned to keep the temperatures on the low side and to put on sweaters. The couple of American homes she’d been in had seemed much too hot.

Instead of cosmetics, of which she used very little, Daphne had installed her laptop on the dressing table. There was room for a book or a paper, but Daphne had always liked neat working spaces. If she had several books and papers to consult, she put them on the bed in an order that made referencing simple.

She had moved an office chair with wheels up to the dressing table to move between the bed and table, despite Gareth’s objections at how it looked. To humor him she changed the chair for the original seat at the end of the day.

At times she wondered if she were a bit OCD with how neatly she tried to work, but in her teenage years, her things were scattered all over the place and she could never find anything. During her second year of university, she had developed a system that worked well in her tiny studio flat and her equally small office at Tweed.

Gareth had commandeered the spare bedroom as his office. For the two of them to try and work in the same room was impossible, although Gareth didn’t consider she had work. He had told her that he wanted her to give up the comic book project. Her reply was that wasn’t reasonable. A phone call had interrupted the discussion and they had not returned to it. Daphne hoped that meant he had forgotten about it. She doubted it.

On the few nights he was free, he wanted her to sit beside him on the sofa as they watched television or Netflix movies, usually James Bond or sci-fi. Neither genre interested Daphne but looking at them with her husband short-circuited his pouting and she enjoyed some of the acting.

Some nights if it were something that didn’t interest her, she mentally planned her research and writing for the next day. A week ago, she had started a knitting project during the television programs.

“These aren’t little things for a new baby?” Gareth had asked.

“It’s a sweater for you, Darling.” She planted a kiss on his cheek. The two first nights she had cast on the stitches and did three rows on the back. When they’d watched a Netflix documentary a week later, she’d finished the 20^th row. At least the time sitting wasn’t wasted.

The nights that Gareth didn’t make it home before 10 or 11 were wonderful. It added to her research/writing time. She’d already discovered the clothes her characters would wear and forwarded photos to Florence for the drawings.

The two women messaged almost daily on their progress. With each passing day, Daphne was growing more and more excited. Twins Abigail and Adam were becoming real to her.

Five trips to Lexington with her camera showed her houses and the landscape. All of which she shared with Florence who sent pencil sketches back.

“I picked up sushi,” Gareth called from the front door. “Meet you in the kitchen.”

Chapter 49

Boston, Massachusetts

January 1775

 

JAMES DIDN’T UNDERSTAND why he was still sleeping at the Gage household other than the General’s orders. It had taken three weeks before he started feeling human and even now he tired easily. He suspected if he were doing the regular marching drills, he would have recovered faster, having been forced to build up strength with the exercise.

He missed the camaraderie of other soldiers. If he appreciated getting out of some of mundane daily chores, what he learned about Boston and the people who were in charge combined with what he gleaned from the natives, he found fascinating.

He was grateful that he could read and write. Written words fascinated him, although books were non-existent in his childhood home. Because he was such a strong reader, he’d often been asked to read documents for his friends or their parents. More than once, he had written letters for them.

The General continued commuting between Salem and Boston. Salem was less hostile, but he claimed he could get the “lay of the land” better in Boston.

At least once a day when he was with the General, James heard him say how he wanted peace adding, “If only they could see what war is like. I’ve seen enough battles to know it’s a living hell.”

During James’ recovery, Mrs. Gage spent hours with him, first in the bedroom he had taken over and later, when he was stronger, in the library or dining room depending on the time of day. Because her children were occupied with their tutor and the staff saved her the need to do domestic chores, he wondered if she were bored and thus wanted to hear about floods in Ely or how a bakery operated. She pressed him with question after question including about his late wife. For the first time, when he spoke of Bess, their life together seemed like something from his imagination.

They talked about the rebels, because that is how the General and members of his government called them, becoming more restless. Mrs. Gage called them patriots but not in her husband’s hearing.

As James grew stronger, she insisted that he dress and go downstairs. They were sitting in the room designated as the library with about 100 leather-covered books. “Do you read, James? You’re staring at the books.”

“At least news sheets. I have fallen behind with events since I’ve been sick.”

“I will give you my copies. What’s your favorite?”

“The Boston Gazette.”

“Mine too. The General won’t look at it.” She leaned towards him and lowered her voice although the General had left for the State House an hour before. “It would do him good. He could learn what they are thinking, maybe even see their point of view. They aren’t totally wrong with what they want.”

James wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Does that shock you? Of course, I can’t share that opinion with my husband.”

He nodded.

She looked out the window. With her back to him, she continued. “I was born in New Jersey. I’ve lived in London, but it was like a foreign country to me, although I did enjoy the luxury.” She laughed. “I admit it. I do enjoy comfort.”

Beth poked her head through the door to ask if they wanted anything. Mrs. Gage turned from the window and ordered tea for both of them. “I’m almost ashamed of how easily we can get tea and how most of the Bostonians would have to sell their souls to pay for a good cuppa.” She handed Beth the key to the box where she’d locked their supply.

“By the way, Dr. Church will join us for dinner tonight. Your being here gives him an excuse to spend time.”

James wondered if that was why Gage kept him in the house during his illness. Tomorrow he would resume his duties and then only the more secretarial ones. Although secretarial duties were not part of the original plan when he assumed the role of part-time orderly to the General, his abilities in reading and writing, once discovered by the General, were put to use. In that capacity, he had read some of the reports from Dr. Church about the rebels, as Church also called them.

Once alone in the library, James answered several correspondences from London. A ship was sailing in two days and the General wanted to make sure that his superiors knew the full extent of the situation.

 

.

Confessions of an Ex-American

I had not intended to give up my American Nationality. 

I grew up in New England, proud of my Yankee stock going back to the American Revolution, well versed in American history and politics.

At 20, as a new bride my husband and I were assigned to the 7th Army Band in Stuttgart, Germany. I fell in love with Europe.

Back in the States, I finished my degree, had a beautiful daughter and got divorced. I traveled to Europe every chance I could. And the more I saw, the more I wanted to live there. Then, add in having two acquaintances murdered and two robberies within our household, the social contract in my target countries, Germany, Austria, France, etc. the desire became stronger. 

Finding a job would be necessary.

I sent out over 800 CVs after I started counting. I sent only one to Switzerland, having been told I wouldn't stand a chance. I'd picked up the International Herald Tribune and there was an ad for someone who knew Digital Equipment. Corp. (I was founding member and marketing director of their credit union) knew German and French. The German was rusty, the French minimal. 

I sent a FAX.

Within minutes a response. My references were checked. A week later I was on a plane,

The interview lasted all day. The company owner, knowing he was difficult, had me meet with a former employee to prove how difficult he was. The deal--if he offered a job and I turned it down, I would pay my ticket. If he didn't offer the job, he would pay. If I accepted his job offer, he would pay.

The deciding factor, he later said, was how I washed up the tea things in a slow period, showing I was a team player. I had to promise to improve my French although he thought my age might be a handicap. 

Two months later I had my working permit and was living and working near Neuchâtel, I hated that job. 

I loved the people I was working with. I loved going from Boston to a village that had 600 people, 6,000 cows, had been the home of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and a cave in an old monastery that made method champagne, It was also the founding place of Absinthe. Voltaire had visited.

I lasted three years trying to find someone who would take my permit. I found a better job in Geneva. My old boss kept my permit and assigned me to the new organization until they could get me a new permit.

I have a great deal of sympathy for any immigrant fighting the bureaucracy, even one that works as well as the Swiss.

It was now 1993. I still had no idea that I would give up my American Nationality. Tomorrow, I will explain how America made it impossible to live in Europe. The attacks came from Carl Levin and Elise Bean. 

Free Write - Cat and Flowers

 D-L's Free Write

They call me Felix after the cartoon cat in the cat food commercial, the one with Robbie Williams singing. Only I'm cuter.

My real name is Satin for my silky coat.

It's been three years since I became the young couples landlord. They looked like a nice couple: young, smiley almost always cheerful.

Mornings, before they opened the flower shop, I'd sit in front of their flower shop. One rainy day, they let me in and then every day after.

They gave me a cushion and then food of various quality and even a litter box tucked in the back office.

I do some work for them. I listen to what clients say the want then go over to what it is: a bucket of flowers, big plants, little plants. If they don't notice me, I meow.

"I think he's showing our merchandise," the man Ted said.

She just smiled and reached for a kitty treat. Salmon, my favorite.

Nice to have good tenants.

Rick's Free Write

Zermatt was in a panic. The door was closed. The shopkeepers were not coming. He wanted them to open the door so he could curl up in the warm, sunny spot in the chair and observe the customers buying plants and flowers.

This wasn’t Sunday. The day they usually remained closed, and he would try to sneak into the church until an altar boy shooed him out.

In fact, it had been several days since the door last opened. Conges annuel? He peeked through the glass. The store was empty! No plants, no flowers, no chair!

His world was unravelling. What did this mean?

Zermatt – so named for the Matterhorn-shaped peak above his nose – began to wander the streets of the village, searching for the shopkeeper couple, or any inviting open door, careful to avoid the plethora of dogs (the small ones were the nastiest), peoples’ feet, bicycles, and kids on scooters. It was harrowing… and cold and wet.

After about two weeks, as he checked out the last section of Rue Victor Hugo, Zermatt sniffed a familiar fragrance. He looked up at the green-painted door, which was closed. But he had a sense this was the place. His new Florever home.

Julia's Free Write

She was out and about doing a few errands.

Ever since her husband had died and her children left with their own families for the four corners of the world, she had ruminated.

Perhaps it was time for her to do something for herself. Over the years she had had a good life, never really thinking about what she wanted to do.

Living in Northern Scotland, the winters could be rough, her arthritis was acting up more and many of her friends had either followed their children or opted for warmer climes. Maybe she should do the same while she could still enjoy it.

A few months of research later, she discovered that there were places on continental Europe with a few expats. Although she felt entirely capable of learning Italian, French or Spanish, she kind of wanted a core of English speakers: not that they would understand her accent.

It also needed to be near an international train line of airport.

And so it was, that she landed in a small town in Southern France.

Now to get on with her errands instead of staring at the cat crouched amongst the flowers!

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the top stories about the airline industry. He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 46-47

 

Chapter 46

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

  

MRS. GAGE SAT next to James’ bed. A tray with a bowl of soup and a cup of tea rested on her lap. Steam rose from both of them. “Good. You’re awake.”

James guessed it was early morning because of the light through the windows. He couldn’t be sure because a veil of snow drifted by the panes.

He was warm, almost hot, between two quilts covering his bed and the fireplace fire. The wood must have had some moisture pockets considering the crackles, the only other sound in the room besides the scraping of a spoon in the bowl.

Mrs. Gage spooned soup into his mouth. “Chicken broth. A little rice. It’ll help build your strength.”

He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. The pancakes?

How long had he been in bed?

How did the General feel about his orderly occupying one of his bedrooms?

Where was the General?

Asking would take more energy than he had.

“Finish at least half of the soup, then Robert will come to give you a sponge bath. We need you to sit in the chair so he can change your bedding.” Another spoonful dribbled into James’ mouth.

A man knocked.

“Come in,” Mrs. Gage said.

James recognized Robert from the 10^th Regiment. He was dressed in civilian clothes. The man carried a bowl of water. A towel was thrown over his shoulder.

Mrs. Gage handed him the tray and stood. “You can finish feeding him. I need to make sure the cook boils the ham for tonight’s meal. It’s Christmas Eve, you know, James.”

Christmas. He’d heard that the colonists had mixed feelings about Christmas. Because he came from Ely, Oliver Cromwell’s home, he grew up being told that Christmas had been banned by him. The idea didn’t seem that strange. He had heard that many of the most devout Bostonians still shared the Puritan viewpoint that Christmas was a pagan holiday.

His father had shared family lore about how their ancestors flipped religions between Catholic, Anglican and Puritan, depending on who was in power. He said it made him question not God but man’s versions of God. His father used to joke their religion was bread, but he would never say it to anyone outside the family. Caution because one never knew who would come into power next and what rules would be replaced with new rules.

He never imagined that another man would undress him even if all he had on was a night shirt that barely came to his knees. He wondered if it were the General’s. He knew he wouldn’t ask. The water was lukewarm. Robert soaped the cloth before wiping it on James body giving special attention to his underarms. Then he would dip the cloth in the already soapy water before “rinsing” the area he’d just washed.

Before he could warn Robert not to go near his prick, Robert said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch your willie or bag.”

The sponge bath left him so exhausted that he fell asleep in the chair where Robert had deposited him like some castoff clothing.

A knock on the door woke him. Before he could tell the person to enter, Beth came in pressing clean linen to her chest.

She didn’t say anything but bobbed as a demi-curtsy.

He wanted to ask her about herself, but she acted as if he weren’t in the room. And talking still took more energy that he could seem to summon.

Without a word she stripped and remade his bed. Each movement was graceful. As a finishing touch she fluffed the two pillows before bouncing another curtsy and leaving with the dirty linen clutched to her chest.

Although the bed was only a few steps away from the chair, James grabbed onto the nightstand before collapsing in the bed and pulling the covers up to his neck. He was asleep within seconds. 

Chapter 47

October

Argelès-sur-mer, France

 I’M STILL SEARCHING for ways to tie Daphne and Florence more closely to the past.

This morning it came to me … The Wayside Inn. In the 70s and 80s I’d eaten there several times when I lived in Waltham and worked in Maynard. It put me in touch with my Yankee roots just by walking in. Although my ancestor on my mother’s side, John Sargent, fought in the American Revolution, I’ve not been able to trace his life enough to know if he was at the April 18^th battle in Lexington. He probably hadn’t lived there, but it was not impossible that he would have been part of the Minutemen from other towns that had rushed to support the early rebels.

I could imagine Henry Wadsworth Longfellow sitting at the Inn getting inspiration and writing about the “crimson curtains rent and thin” and Bronson Alcott leaving Fruitlands with some of his friends to eat and wax philosophical.

In other times, I would have needed to spend hours in a library or visit the site. Visits during a pandemic of a restaurant across the Atlantic were impossible. Even without the pandemic, cost would be prohibitive.

My memories were of wood and roast lamb with mint sauce.

In describing any place, Victorian writers would go overboard almost creating a visual of every petal in a flower or every thread in a chair covering. Modern writers select just enough detail to allow the reader to “see” the scene as if they were there.

In my covid-safe office and my butterfly-decorated laptop (see only two details), I used the internet for the history and Google images for the way the Inn looks now. The Inn’s website provided the menu and information on historic drinks.

I also decided that if I had James stop at the Inn in his narrative, I’d better give it its historic name, Howe.

I made a mental note, that if/when I’m back in the area, I want to go there for lunch.