The Last of the Stanfields(82)
Four hours later, a pair of shepherds arrived and approached the group, showing no surprise at the strange ensemble. They invited everyone into their home without question, and gave them polenta and sheep’s milk. After the meal and a good night’s rest, the group was ready to hit the road again. They parted ways, and Hanna and Robert continued down a paved road on foot. The couple soon managed to hitch a ride aboard a truck full of Spanish laborers, who dropped them off at a guesthouse run by trustworthy allies. The inn even had a phone that Robert used to call the US consulate.
Hanna and Robert slept the entire day. A car came for them around dusk, and they were driven through the night to the US consulate in Madrid. Over the course of the following week, Robert was debriefed by a liaison officer. After his identity had been verified, he was offered safe passage to Gibraltar. From there, a boat would take him to Tangier, where he’d be able to board a cargo ship that would carry him stateside.
Hanna, the officer informed Robert, wasn’t an American citizen and couldn’t come home with him. This drove Robert into a blind rage. He adamantly refused to leave without her. The officer apologized but insisted there was nothing he could do. Robert, however, had other ideas.
The next day, the same officer officiated their marriage, and Hanna became an American citizen.
Ten days later, Hanna found herself leaning over the balustrade of a ship, gazing back at the coastline, her past life fading into the distance. Huddled close to her new husband, she thanked him for saving her life.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Robert replied, overcome with emotion. “We got through this nightmare together. Without you, I would have given up a long time ago. I’m only alive right now because of you.”
One of the newlyweds was headed home; the other was leaving home for the unknown. Neither had any luggage, save the satchel that never once left Robert’s side throughout the entire journey.
31
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Baltimore
As we settled in for lunch, I observed the mixed crowd at the café. A businessman was sitting with eyes glued to his smartphone. A group of teenaged boys huddled close together, interacting only through an online game on the screens of their gadgets. A trio of pregnant women were chatting about baby clothes and buggy brands. A young couple was sitting wordlessly, while an elderly couple had devoured a whole spread of pastries in a show of mischievous indulgence.
George-Harrison had chosen a spot for us at the bar. He scoffed at my restlessness as I polished off a Cobb salad and a Coke.
“You’re driving me crazy spinning on the stool like that. What’s there to look at here anyway?”
“People?” I shrugged.
“Tell me: What’s your first stop when you arrive in a new city? Where do you go to find your angle?” he asked.
“Angle . . . what kind of angle?”
“I mean the angle for your article.”
“Hmm. I’d say open-air markets are pretty much the only place where people from all walks of life come together. You wouldn’t believe how much you can learn by looking at the stalls and vendors, seeing what people are buying, what they consider valuable.”
“I believe it,” he said, setting down his empty pint glass. George-Harrison had nearly downed the beer in one swig, and demolished his sandwich in a few massive bites. With most men, I found that type of thing boorish at best and repulsive at worst, but not with George-Harrison.
He definitely had something classy about him—classy in a raw kind of way, without any calculation or premeditation. That struck me as . . . soothing for some reason, or, even more dangerous, disarmingly sincere. Even when he had been upset earlier, George-Harrison’s voice had stayed level and calm. My ex, the Washington Post reporter, was nothing like him; he never asked a single question about my writing, judging his own work to be much more important. Thinking back, I was blind for so much of the relationship and wasted a lot of time with him. But maybe that was what I really needed then: to tread water in a relationship doomed to fail. That kind of freedom made it easier to keep certain truths at bay.
A girl in a jumper and jeans entered the café, and the screen-addicted teens looked up from their dragons and Vikings to stare. She was stunning, and she knew it. She was ten years younger than me, with a carefree kind of confidence that I could only dream of. I knew I was being stupid, considering how much of a struggle growing up can be. I would have sooner died than relive that period. But I did miss being able to just roll out of bed, throw on anything, and still step out the door looking flawless. As the girl settled down at a table, I couldn’t help but wonder if George-Harrison would check her out, too. He didn’t even blink, which made me happier than I was ready to admit.
“How about you?” I asked. “How do you tackle a new piece of furniture?”
“I use tools,” he said, with a mischievous smile. “But hey, you don’t have to ask about my work just to be polite.” Wow. Busted. What’s worse, he also noticed my guilty look at being caught red-handed. “Hey, relax. I’m just messing with you,” he said. “Let’s see, for starters . . . I envision the blueprint and then sit down to draw.”
“If you please, draw me a sheep,” I said, in a child’s voice, seeing if he would catch the reference to one of my favorite books.
“Sorry, can’t help you there. But I can draw a box for the sheep, if you like. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to put holes in it so the little fella can breathe.”