down the address and phone number for Potter’s office. “Thank you,” he’d managed to say.
“If you get the job, treat yourself to a glass of chocolate milk.”
And with that the still-nameless voice had left the line.
Hawkins Fuller.
Now, a week later, Tim sat for another moment on the steps, before he opened his eyes to see a flag being run up one of the distant poles on the Capitol’s roof. It was a familiar sight: he knew that this flag would wave for only a moment before being lowered and shipped to some elementary school in Cheyenne or Mill Valley, where the teachers could tell the students it had flown over the U.S. Capitol. But for the few seconds it was aloft, filled with what might be two new separate futures, Tim looked at it with his hand over his heart.
October 6, 1953
Dear Rep. Fish:
You may assure your Dutch-American constituent in Wappingers Falls that the Department of State views all recent violence in Indonesia with the greatest possible concern. As Secretary Dulles remarked on…
Mary Johnson proofread her letter to the New York congressman and sank into the feeling of futility that often overcame her by midafternoon. What could any of these well-meant epistolary stitchings and swabbings really do to treat the wounds of the tortured world? There was news this week that Lockheed had begun work on a nuclear-powered airplane; no doubt it would be carrying an atomic bomb as well.
Behind Mary, Miss Lightfoot was speaking to Beverly Phillips about the woman in the Office of Legal Advisors who’d just won a four-thousand-dollar car in WMAL’s “Mystery Voice” contest.
“Well,” said Mrs. Phillips, “
she
won’t have any trouble making her Community Chest contribution.”
Mary laughed. Underneath the correspondence piling up for the bureau chief’s signature lay her copy of the memo from R. W. Scott McLeod, security officer to 1,142 employees, informing all of them that if they chose not to make a Community Chest contribution this year, they must report to his office for an interview. Secretary Dulles was chairman of the department’s drive, and McLeod’s zeal to show the boss what a little extra aggression could accomplish had sparked much grumbling about the “Conformity Chest.”
“There’s nothing wrong with what McLeod is doing,” said Miss Lightfoot, in her near-chronic tone of irritation. “He’s just trying for one-hundred-percent participation. He’ll
lend
you a dollar if you can’t contribute one on your own.”
Mary turned her small swivel chair so that she and Beverly Phillips could each raise an eyebrow to the other. Miss Lightfoot also found nothing wrong with McLeod’s unceasing security-risk investigations. Indeed, she seemed disappointed with the estimate that his review of things wouldn’t reach Congressional Relations until December.
A young man carrying a book now came through the door, confusing Mary, who took him for the summer office boy from Eastern European Affairs. Hadn’t he returned to school?
“Is Mr. Fuller in?” the boy asked. He stammered over the “F” in Fuller. “I couldn’t find him on the wall directory, but the man at the front desk told me to come here.”
Mary smiled. She realized that this wasn’t the boy from EEA, though he did look a little like the lovesick Donald O’Connor in
Call Me Madam,
the only musical anyone would ever care to make about this place. And then it occurred to her. This skinny fellow
was
lovesick. She looked at him gently, filling up with annoyance toward Fuller as she did so. What new recklessness of his had made this boy venture here with a handful of pebbles to throw at Romeo’s window?
“I’m afraid he left early. To go to the Georgetown library, I believe.”
“The library at George Washington U.,” Miss Lightfoot corrected.
“Thank you,” said Mary. Her colleague, already matronly though no more than thirty-five, certainly kept track of Fuller.
“Will he be back?” the young
“If you get the job, treat yourself to a glass of chocolate milk.”
And with that the still-nameless voice had left the line.
Hawkins Fuller.
Now, a week later, Tim sat for another moment on the steps, before he opened his eyes to see a flag being run up one of the distant poles on the Capitol’s roof. It was a familiar sight: he knew that this flag would wave for only a moment before being lowered and shipped to some elementary school in Cheyenne or Mill Valley, where the teachers could tell the students it had flown over the U.S. Capitol. But for the few seconds it was aloft, filled with what might be two new separate futures, Tim looked at it with his hand over his heart.
October 6, 1953
Dear Rep. Fish:
You may assure your Dutch-American constituent in Wappingers Falls that the Department of State views all recent violence in Indonesia with the greatest possible concern. As Secretary Dulles remarked on…
Mary Johnson proofread her letter to the New York congressman and sank into the feeling of futility that often overcame her by midafternoon. What could any of these well-meant epistolary stitchings and swabbings really do to treat the wounds of the tortured world? There was news this week that Lockheed had begun work on a nuclear-powered airplane; no doubt it would be carrying an atomic bomb as well.
Behind Mary, Miss Lightfoot was speaking to Beverly Phillips about the woman in the Office of Legal Advisors who’d just won a four-thousand-dollar car in WMAL’s “Mystery Voice” contest.
“Well,” said Mrs. Phillips, “
she
won’t have any trouble making her Community Chest contribution.”
Mary laughed. Underneath the correspondence piling up for the bureau chief’s signature lay her copy of the memo from R. W. Scott McLeod, security officer to 1,142 employees, informing all of them that if they chose not to make a Community Chest contribution this year, they must report to his office for an interview. Secretary Dulles was chairman of the department’s drive, and McLeod’s zeal to show the boss what a little extra aggression could accomplish had sparked much grumbling about the “Conformity Chest.”
“There’s nothing wrong with what McLeod is doing,” said Miss Lightfoot, in her near-chronic tone of irritation. “He’s just trying for one-hundred-percent participation. He’ll
lend
you a dollar if you can’t contribute one on your own.”
Mary turned her small swivel chair so that she and Beverly Phillips could each raise an eyebrow to the other. Miss Lightfoot also found nothing wrong with McLeod’s unceasing security-risk investigations. Indeed, she seemed disappointed with the estimate that his review of things wouldn’t reach Congressional Relations until December.
A young man carrying a book now came through the door, confusing Mary, who took him for the summer office boy from Eastern European Affairs. Hadn’t he returned to school?
“Is Mr. Fuller in?” the boy asked. He stammered over the “F” in Fuller. “I couldn’t find him on the wall directory, but the man at the front desk told me to come here.”
Mary smiled. She realized that this wasn’t the boy from EEA, though he did look a little like the lovesick Donald O’Connor in
Call Me Madam,
the only musical anyone would ever care to make about this place. And then it occurred to her. This skinny fellow
was
lovesick. She looked at him gently, filling up with annoyance toward Fuller as she did so. What new recklessness of his had made this boy venture here with a handful of pebbles to throw at Romeo’s window?
“I’m afraid he left early. To go to the Georgetown library, I believe.”
“The library at George Washington U.,” Miss Lightfoot corrected.
“Thank you,” said Mary. Her colleague, already matronly though no more than thirty-five, certainly kept track of Fuller.
“Will he be back?” the young
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