WHO DO YOU CALL WHEN YOU NEED TO SAY "I LOVE YOU"?

by Jerry Mullins



The man moved to the chair nearest the window, looking out on the famous street. From the top floor of the once grand house, a clear view down the hill to the park revealed the changing leaves, the occasional dying branch jutting out from the trunks of the trees lining the street, the bold white bark of the newer sycamores like strong human limbs.

He was alone in the house now. On most days he was pleased to be alone, after many years of the obligations of performance and appearance, when there was little substance behind the outward shell. The folly of public service with sparse support or real meaning to the feckless day-to-day actions had long ago dulled his sensitivities. The only saving grace was the unspoken acquiescence of his counterparts in the international arena, who similarly felt powerless to do little more than the diplomatic dance of shallow words, the legacy of diplomacy from the sallow past. Even enemies bent on world domination became pliable friends, or so it seemed. Perhaps that is how it all started.                             

The family was gone now, the spouse long gone into a later marriage, the children now grown and well into their own careers and achievements, along with the usual alarms and disasters of their personal attributes and lives. He often told them, jokingly, “I hope I have not fouled up your life too badly”. They were kind in replying, “You are fine. We feel blessed to have you as our Father.” He was glad they did not, and could not, know the worst of the situation.

The leaves outside the window rustled with a gust of wind from the hills west of Georgetown. He noticed the several people on the street below hurrying by, picking up their walking stride as the wind struck them. The man thought how pleasant it was that he had no such need to quicken his step on any matter at anyone’s behest at this point in his life. But he missed the ego’s drive to demonstrate competence and the importance of place and position, the march of prominence in the hierarchy. He knew he now would never feel that march again, nor want to, except in fleeting moments of remorse. He knew he had been an exceptional diplomat, in a field of political appointees with only a large political campaign donation as their chief qualification.   

He missed the attention he could pay to the young women, even if it was only ephemeral and driven by their attention to the position. At times it became more, although dangerous, but usually with the ample warning signs of over interest or eagerness. He had never seen anyone so cold at the outset as she had been. It had been a challenge penetrating the shell that seemed to surround her.   

He missed even more the opportunity to simply express himself in a loving way. Not just the physical expression, but also the small actions, the occasional smile for even the least reason, the ending of a telephone call with an “I love you”. He did not feel old, aged, and dreaded the thought of aging. He was saddened to realize day after day he had no one to call and say “I love you”. 

He looked across the room and thought of the revolver in the ornate desk’s top right drawer. He had often looked at it and sat in this same chair and held it in his hand after returning home from his last posting. Eventually he dismissed the idea of taking his life, mindful of the effect of such an action on his children and their children over the coming generations. No matter how depressed he became during that short time, he reasoned his way past that. He often thought back then of “Custer’s last stand” and the little known story that some of the soldiers at the height of the battle had taken their own lives, observing the “Save the last bullet for yourself” tenet, rather than be mutilated by the attacking warriors.

The Department had been very gracious. “You can take an early retirement, and we will facilitate anything you need as you make the transition. And if you feel the need to work we can speak for you with any number of organizations to take you on. But we are fairly well aware you may not need income, with the assets you seem to have. We are trying to be as sensitive and careful as we can. You have been a fine Foreign Service Officer, and it is not often we have the grandson of a former Secretary of State here. This whole thing is unfortunate. No one has proven you divulged sensitive information to that woman, nor did she divulge their information to you. The problem is she was not only a member of their diplomatic corp, but also a member of the royal family. We can call it a clash of cultures.”

The wind outside seemed to subside, the leaves outside came to a rest, and brilliant sunshine filled the west-facing windows. He prepared to take a walk. Perhaps he would meet someone.