DEAR IRENÉ
a companion piece to "First Light"

Date:         May 12, 2023

To:             Irené Fournier (frenchfille@yorkcounty.net)

Subject:    Pick One—I Dare You :-)

From:        Donna C. Hogarth (themaineinstructor@yorkcounty.net)

Reenie—

To answer your impatient question "Where are you and what's up?" I can only offer a long tale.

Remember those Saturday nights at Tufts when we didn't want to go clubbing and instead would endlessly watch my DVDs of M*A*S*H? And when we'd watch my favorite, "Dear Sigmund,"  I'd smile and say that if I ever needed a "rest cure" like Sidney Freedman, I'd love to do it someplace like the 4077th?

I've found a place, and it's nothing like the Swamp.

My mother worked with a guy named Robert Goren for eight years. "Quirky," she called him, not to mention "intuitive, offbeat, intense," his mind filled with minutiae, doggedly stubborn, a soft touch for kids—and one other person in his life. He'd come from the NYPD and for all those years kept a photo of his former partner on his desk. Mom called her the unofficial fourth member of the team. But he would never admit to her how he felt. I used to think I could write him up for a psychology paper if I'd had the guts to call him for an interview. But Bob resigned after Mom was replaced by a stink-ass named Harry Cavanaugh—"Robert was high-octane gasoline to Cavanaugh's fire," Mom explained in that oh-it's-nothing (which means it's everything) way of hers—and ironically it was COVID that triggered the events that brought him back into contact with his former partner (long story). He proposed, she accepted, and they're living (reasonably) peacefully in a little town in Connecticut—Alex (Mrs. G, unless you are Bob, who always introduces her as Alexandra Eames) says it's the closest thing to a Hallmark movie town you'll ever find. People know each other's names and speak to each other—well, except for the Danielsons who are another story.

Don't think I'm doing the rose-colored glasses thing, either; this isn't enchanted Brigadoon-land—there are the standard reports of opioid misuse in adults and gang rumblings in the local schools, and sadly, we're not far from Newtown...I paid my respects about a week ago, and my heart still hurts.

How I ended up here is complicated, and better left to in-person chat, but the short version is that Bob and Alex were summoned to Paris a little over a month ago. (We should all be so lucky, right? But, actually, not this time.) When they'd worked together at the NYPD, they'd had a perpetual thorn in their side, an Australian woman, a serial killer who had also murdered her three-year-old child. She was immensely clever, continually managed to give them the slip, was declared dead based on planted evidence, then turned up in Paris cozying up to a French government official. Since you watch France24 regularly, you might have seen the name Marcel Pepin pop up last month—he died Easter weekend in a car accident, along with this woman, who passed herself off under the name Madeleine Haynes. (Real name avoided intentionally.) They weren't married; M. Pepin already had a family of three adult children, married to a wife from one of the ten wealthiest families in France.

But I digress—as always, I hear you think: Pepin and Haynes had a child together, a little girl named Mignon. Bob and Alex, unaware of why they were in Paris, discovered Haynes had requested in her will that they be Mignon's guardians should something happen to her and Pepin. Madame Pepin, who simply wanted her husband's bastard out of the house tout de suite, pulled many strings at the U.S. State Department—she has that much pull—and just like that Mignon's on her way home with Bob and Alex.

The other thing you need to know is that both Alex and Bob have written books, both books are being released on May 16, and they'll be on the road for a U.S.-wide book tour through August. The publisher, Hastings House, arranged a tour bus for them, initially so they wouldn't have to board their pets for fifteen weeks. Enter an almost ten-year-old who's still in school...

Guess who got recommended for the tutoring job? Ding-ding-ding if you guessed yours truly. (And thanks, Mom.) When the school year ends in late June, I morph into Mignon's "holiday tutor" as the Brits call it.

So where I am is in the village of Milbury (seven miles south of Southbury), in the tiniest of houses (a 50's Cape Cod with an attic filled to bursting with books; it's also Bob's office—he still works with Mom). Besides Bob, Alex, Olivia—as Mignon decided she wants to be called (her middle name)—plus me tucked comfortably in a cozy corner of the basement, there's Sam, a collie dog with the heft of a small St. Bernard and more empathic than half of the guidance counselors I've ever worked with, and a crazy budgerigar named Bandit who shouts "Hi!" if he wants your attention, then lands on your head. Bandit has officially blessed my adoption into the family: attached find photo Alex snapped; you can see he's fallen asleep nestled between my neck and my hair, head under his wing!

And then there are—well, seriously, Bob knows everyone (sans Danielsons) and each day I'm introduced to someone important in this family's life. The chief anchors in this friendship circle are Shard Carver (son of Bob and Alex's old district attorney colleague at the NYPD who's now a judge) and his partner TJ Gomes. They own a small restaurant/bar called the Dark Crystal—girl, you need to hop a train and come visit; TJ's wings and potato skins are that good—where, believe it or not, Bob and Alex run a twice-weekly pub trivia game so popular it was written up in "Yankee" magazine. Bob presides (plus commits magic and triple-threat puns) in his guise as "The Wizard" with Alex posing questions as "Princess Ozma," and now Olivia's in the act as "Trot" (no idea who she is; never read any Oz except the first) in an authentic middy dress courtesy one of Alex's friends, Viola Perrino. Mrs. P sews, and Alex had simply asked her if she bought all the supplies, how much would Viola charge to run up a middy for Olivia's "Trot" outfit? Instead the blessed woman jumped back into her vintage Plymouth Neon, drove home to Southbury, then returned with the real thing, worn by her mother at Olivia's age in the 1920s! She said Olivia was welcome to wear it so long as it fit. Olivia fell in love with it at once and vows to stay the same size forever.

Also attached is a picture of my pupil. Have you ever seen such eyes? They observe everything and remind me of Wiggins' descriptions of Rebecca Randall. Right now she's several inches over four feet tall, about 70 pounds, and definitely not a couch potato. Between her and Bob, sometimes the house is like a pool table with them bouncing against the bumpers.

Bob is 6'4" of kinetic energy and remains still during daylight hours only when working or if immersed in a book. His stature makes him imposing, yet he's the most amiable and intelligent guy I've ever met. However, do not mistake "amiable" for "doormat." His eyes and smile can change from gentle to dark in seconds. The first time I attended trivia, another first-time customer expressed displeasure about "a towelhead" (referring to Farouk, the gentle soul who keeps the Dark Crystal free of dreaded black marks from food safety auditors) working there. There was no mistaking Shard's anger, but he's also a business owner and the consummate host, so he simply attempted to escort the "gentleman" (word used loosely) without fuss to the door with the message that he wasn't welcome any longer; when the man balked (his words were "You'd prefer a foreigner's company over that of a paying customer?"), Bob simply loomed up behind him, said conversationally, "Yes, we would, because Farouk is a much better person," and steered the gaping guy out the door. You could tell steam was coming out of Bob's ears, but he was at all times collected.

Alex, on the other hand, is five foot two of quiet determination, and unstoppable in her own fashion. Finished with her book, she's coaxing Bob to write another one of his own about his travels in the Army, a story which would be reconstructed from postcards he sent his mother (which Mom Goren carefully preserved in a shoebox), and otherwise is always working for some cause, with fundraising for Big Brothers/Big Sisters primary on her list. Bob originally did a solo Wednesday stint at the Southbury chapter, which is headquartered in a World War I-era schoolhouse, partnering with a retiree named Russ Jenkins to ride herd on a group of younger teen boys on school early-release day. Once Alex re-entered Bob's life and began coming along with him, some girls began attending as well, so now, along with mentoring, she forms a cadre with the grandmother (Mrs. Diaz) of two of the kids and Mrs. Perrino to provide extras: libros en Espanol and other books for the library, a new washing machine, more sports equipment; they also make sure there's a supply of dinners for the kids who don't get a decent hot meal during the day.

Together Bob and Alex have become Olivia's defenders, caretakers, consolers, counselors, playmates, and disciplinarians. Mama and Papa Bear could not be more protective.

Alex's other main job is being Bob's best girl, and his other is being her best guy; their affection runs deep and there's always some point where they are stealing a glance, or exchanging a message via this telepathic "thing" they seem to have. If they can't make up for the ten years they were physically separated, they are indeed making the most of what they have now. Viola Perrino, who was Alex's neighbor in Southbury for nine months, would be cast immediately by Francis Ford Coppola as "meddling Italian grandmother" in a movie of their relationship. She told me almost the instant we met that Bob and Alex were bashert, a term she learned from a dear friend who was Jewish. I looked it up—in Jewish tradition, it means "destined" or "intended"—the other half to your half to make you both whole.

I make it sound sappy. It's not. Both of them, of course, will tell you it didn't start out that way, yet their old coworker Mike Logan still claims "everyone knew but them."

Olivia is a conundrum: sometimes she's nine, sometimes she's going-on-forty, lately there are times she wants to be cuddled like a toddler. She misses her parents deeply, but presents a brave face to the world and refuses to let it defeat her. Only during the night do her monsters extend their claws. Bob and Alex told me she suffered from terrible nightmares when she first arrived, and that, in fact, I turned up on a milestone day: she'd slept through the night. Now if she's restless in the wee hours, she's more likely to get up and take refuge in the living room. Bob found her the first time and wondered if she wasn't sleepwalking, huddled on the stairs hugging the stuffed fox he bought her in Paris, but she responded to his voice. So he sat with her, then eventually selected a book from the stairs (there are books everywhere here, even wedged in the kitchen), and began reading her some vintage nonfiction Alex inherited from her brother-in-law's late mother. Ever heard of Gladys Taber? She wrote magazine columns way back about owning a colonial-era farmhouse in Southbury; she's pretty well known in the area due to a land-trust property adjacent to hers. Alex found her nonfiction comforting (and occasionally soporific) when she served as surrogate mother for her sister; now Olivia is the newest fan lulled by Taber's stories about cocker spaniels and country activities. I know all this because I spelled Bob the other night—he was worn out from helping the next-door neighbor clean his yard—and made their acquaintance. To Olivia, raising spaniel puppies on formula and growing your own fresh veg seems to be as much of a book fancy as Mary Poppins riding the wind on an open umbrella or the Pevensie kids reaching Narnia through the wardrobe.

Oh, the books! Olivia has a book fetish nearly as obsessive as her adoptive father's. Wednesday we shopped at the local indie bookstore and she proudly carried out $200 worth of books, including Usborne's science encyclopedia—I remember you using that in your classes—and The Phantom Tollbooth, which Bob told her was a must-have. But the books also have a competitor: she also turned up Bob's "BBC History Magazine" back issues stacked in the basement, so now one night Bob is reading a book to her, and the next an article or two from an issue. Tonight I listened in on a discussion about Elizabeth I versus Mary Queen of Scots! Olivia is very much the Elephant's Child: "Why?" is her motto, and she has "insatiable curiosity," so an Elizabeth/Mary discussion was as natural for her as it is for Alex's lilac arbor to bloom in May.

The neighbor I mentioned turns out to have an intriguing story of his own: he had the bad luck to turn 18 in June 1950—hence one of the first Americans shipped to Korea when war broke out. Bruno Volpe registered as a conscientious objector, got beaten up as a "conchie," and went to Korea as a medic. Bob now worries about him because it's obvious he's not as fit as when they first met in 2020, and somehow always knows when a hand is needed at Bruno's house. Olivia's fascinated by his age and asks him about the 1950s. Bruno teased her the first time: "Go watch Happy Days," he said. He didn't count on Olivia, who declared, "That's fake. Please, I want to know the real 1950s." So he told her in easy language—about the Cold War, the blacklist, Red Channels, even some about Korea—never once frighteningly explicit, and she listened with an earnestness that continues to surprise me.

Mrs. Perrino runs errands for Bruno several times a week, so Ana (Mrs. Diaz's granddaughter; her older brother is Carlos) sweet-talked Mrs. P into driving her to visit Olivia on Mondays and Fridays as well (this doesn't count their current Wednesdays at Big Brothers). She told Mrs. P that Olivia is homesick for her old school friends (one, at least, whom she e-mails a couple times weekly, even to spill something as minor as Bob's nightly reading). Alex is pretty sure that at first Ana came due to curiosity, but seeing them together I know she's now here because the friendship has become precious to her. They walk hand-in-hand the way we used to, Ana with a stuffed lamb she initially brought along to make Olivia feel comfortable, Olivia with the stuffed fox she carries everywhere. While we're away, Bob has arranged for installation of two wooden swings in the backyard as a surprise; for now, the girls sit on the steps of the shed-remade-into-office-space at the back (sometimes inside the shed if it's rainy and chilly as it was last week), away from us totally clueless adults. :-) Reminds me of those summer nights we tried to keep cool on the back stoop of your grandmother's triple-decker in Malden, whispering under the sounds of the crickets and the car radios and the broadcast of the Sox games floating out the neighbors' windows. Remember how your Pépère would come out and sing the chorus of that corny old song "Goodnight Irene" when it was time for me to go home? You were the only one who wasn't put off by the goofy bookworm with the funny hair. Thank you, Reen.

What's left? Oh, haven't explained the Danielsons yet. Bob, who talks to everyone, has given up on them with reluctance, Alex just shrugs, but Olivia is sad. They're a couple in their 70s who live in a funky green saltbox house at the very end of the street. He looks straight out of Duck Dynasty, in jeans and tie-dye, she looks like Julie from the American Girl books grown old. They're the real thing, hippies back in the 1960s and 70s, demonstrated for civil rights and in favor of legalizing pot and the occupation of Wounded Knee, and against Vietnam and DuPont and nuclear weapons, and experienced the most horrible things law enforcement could toss at them: tear gas, truncheons, fire hoses, and police dogs. They have never forgiven, like my grandmother. I suppose one can't blame them, assaulted and bloodied, dragged off to jail and jeered, simply for standing up for others' rights. Still, to me, the Danielsons blaming Olivia—or even Bob and Alex—for what police officers did in the past was like my grandmother hating the Japanese for Pearl Harbor till the day she died. (Surprise! Black people weren't the only ones my bigoted granny whetted her dislike on!)

But I do feel bad for Olivia, who, despite her losses, keeps trying to make gains, and she simply can't get the Danielsons to thaw. She simply burns to be friends with everyone; I've e-mailed both her old nanny and her half-brother, and I get the same answer: she's always been friendly, curious, and gregarious, but this intensity is brand new. Of course, Dr. Allyson, her therapist, can't talk to me about her sessions, but I'll wager she thinks as I do: it's all tied in with her loss, like her reliance on her fox, her nightmares, the way it's difficult for her to let Bob and Alex out of her sight except for those few hours with Ana or talking over the fence with Bruno.

I swear, before we leave I will say something to the Danielsons...

Yesterday I tagged along while Bob and Alex registered Olivia for the fall school term. Her biological father willed her a yearly stipend for education, and the Gorens are determined she attend a school where her curiosity will be encouraged and her thirst for knowledge satisfied. So I was gobsmacked when they told me they were going to enroll her in a place called St. Gregory's Academy because all I could think of was that straitjacket of a Catholic school your Tante Antoinette forced you to attend, with the nuns clothed in penguin suits and fixed scowls. The school itself was imposing enough: big castellated stone building with three stories, a bell tower, and the year incised in limestone over the door: 1886. Seriously, workhouse-in-Oliver-Twist vibes.

But inside, Reen—all the rich brown woodwork present in old buildings was still there, polished and gleaming; at the same time it was light and airy, the painted portion of the walls in pastels, athletic trophies in the foyer area just as in public school, artwork from all the different grades on display. Yes, there was a stained-glass window with the Sacred Heart, a stylized crucifix...but even from the foyer, I could hear the sounds of enthusiastic class participation! I didn't realize there were nuns who didn't tell you only to shut up and do your work.

We saw Sister Rosamund, head of Admissions; I think Bob said she was seventy, but she has a calm, smooth face like a porcelain doll and kind, yet sharp and shrewd gray eyes. She knew immediately that both Olivia and I were skeptical of her and took us as a challenge. Her order doesn't wear any kind of clothing you and I would consider a "habit," just a prim long-sleeved dark-blue cotton dress hemmed at calf-length, trimmed with white collar and cuffs, sensible shoes (Sister R actually had on Sketchers; she's on her feet a lot), a clearly well-counted olivewood rosary around her neck, and a demure little "veil" that looks like a hanky held on with a headband. Nope, no wimple! Olivia was...amazed because she'd been expecting penguins, too, and dressed in what she thought would be the prescribed outfit: a nice plaid skirt with a roughly MacLeod tartan design, a white blouse, white ankle socks, and black Oxfords. Sister R (that's what she insisted on being called) complimented her on the combination, took Olivia's hand, and started chatting as if they were old friends.

Bob had already provided a brief Olivia "primer," but the rest Sister R figured out for herself and conducted us through the things Olivia liked most: a drawing class where the fifth graders used a darling elderly dachshund (he was asleep) who belonged to one of the lay teachers as a model, a sixth-grade AP Language Arts class where they were presenting projects about their latest assignment (Forbes' Johnny Tremain; one girl had made a booklet with a hand-drawn cover of Johnny on his horse), a seventh-grade history class where the kids debated if the changes that computers have caused in modern life were for better or worse, and lastly we went outside between the two buildings (the "upper school" at St. Gregory's is housed in a second, newer brick building behind the "castle," separating the high schoolers from the younger kids). Olivia literally bounced when she saw the tennis court, and then we all stopped to watch the eleventh-grade AP science class in the soccer field launching low-power model rockets. Next thing you know, both Olivia and Bob were talking to a tall girl in a hijab who was prepping a reproduction Atlas rocket about the type of motors she used and what altitude the rocket was likely to reach, and Olivia's face lit up like the flame of the rocket when it finally launched. Alex and I stayed behind to clue Sister R in about Olivia's past and now I feel bad that we didn't get to talk more!

So Olivia is duly accepted for the autumn term. Sister R has her records from the Creatwood School, and think it's advisable that, until her classwork and tests prove otherwise, she should remain at the same grade level she's in this year. Alex worried that she'll be repeating work and be bored, but Sister R mentioned that the differences between a British school and an American school, in combination with the age difference between her and her classmates, might work against Olivia. This did make Olivia pout—she takes pride in being the youngest in her class—but Sister R spoke to her so sensibly, as if they were contemporaries, that it somewhat mollified her.

Oh, what a mixed bag this letter is! I can hear you laughing now, Reenie, about my pinball machine mind. But there's just so much here in a small package, the little grey and white house with the maple trees and the lilac arbor and the shed out back, warm and cozy inside with the family.

Let me set tonight's scene before I hit "send": Bob's in his recliner, sorting trivia questions for the duration (Alex's cousin Phil will spell him as The Wizard for the next fifteen weeks, to the resigned dismay of Bob's fans—Goren Groupies, Alex calls them); Alex is completing checklists on her laptop, on the side of the sofa closest to Bob. Every once in a while he will look up, or she will look up, and the look they exchange isn't lustful, or sloppy, or tediously romantic, just one of quiet understanding, a pleasant secret they're both in on. Peace. Mutual respect. (OK, I'm the one getting sappy now.) Olivia's stretched out on the floor pillowed on Sam, who has become her devoted knight errant, watching the show Ana hooked her on, Molly of Denali (I'm hooked, too; they sneak in jokes for the adults). Bandit is perched on Bob's shoulder, fluffed up and burbling to himself, contentedly preening the hair on Bob's neck.

And here I perch on the opposite end of this very comfy sofa, working with our itinerary map. Bob and Alex hope Olivia will learn U.S. history during her travels—everyone's history, not the 1940s Scott-Foresman version. So, not just the Williamsburg Gaol but also the Birmingham jail, the Edmund Pettis Bridge along with the Old North Bridge, Anne Hutchinson alongside Roger Williams, not just Mr. DuPont but Madame Walker, Wheatley and Dunbar as well as Whitman and Longfellow, Sequoyah and Webster, not just William Tecumseh Sherman but Tecumseh himself, Bessie Coleman and Eugene Bullard along with the Lafayette Escadrille, the Cherokee as vital as the cotton fields that replaced them. Painful history—"colored" water fountains (makes me feel like an outline in a coloring book), "No Irish Need Apply," "No Natives Allowed" (which Olivia just learned from the episode "Molly and Elizabeth" and was indignant)—as well as the good. I won't get it all in, but you of all people know I'll give it my best.

We start out on our big adventure Monday afternoon, so only three days from now we will be tooling up to Boston. Will you please come to the book signing, Reen, for a last hug before I do a John Steinbeck around the US in a bus? (Maybe Sam can stand in for Charley?)

Yours as always crazily,
With love,

Donna