~ ~ ~ ~
Prologue
Of the 86,000 quotations on-line at Bartleby.com, over 1,200 contain
the word "home." The term may mean where one sleeps and receives mail
or may carry emotional weight, as in the proverb, "Home is where the
heart is." This story explores the experience of "home" to Lee
Stetson at four points in his life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Part I.
"Home is where one starts from."
T.S. Eliot, "East Croker."
December 1954
Lee Stetson, age four-going-on-five, admired the tiny silver car in
his palm, his favorite of his whole collection. He didn't lose the
sports car after all. He just sort of misplaced it, at the bottom of
the dumb old toy chest. He could never find anything in that stupid
thing!
The *empty* toy chest might come in handy, though. It could be a
fort. A boat. A car. Or a tank, a submarine, or an airplane. The
possibilities, he realized, were endless.
Grinning in satisfaction, Lee leaned against the multipurpose wooden
chest and surveyed the toy soldiers, vehicles, cowboy gear, blocks,
and games spread across the floor of his bedroom. *That* made
sense. Now he could see and find everything.
"Lee, darling, I made chocolate chip--Oh, Lee!"
He stopped congratulating himself on his handiwork when he heard
Mummy. She stood in the doorway, shaking her head as she glanced
around, wide-eyed.
"Look, Mummy, I found it!" He brandished the prized silver Matchbox
sports car and waited for congratulations. After all, he looked for
it all over his room, for a really long time.
Mummy didn't look happy. Well, Mummy was a girl, or sort of like
one, anyway, and girls didn't understand about cars the way he and
Daddy did. She didn't know that Daddy sometimes let Lee sit on his
lap and steer the car for a little while. They weren't doing
anything wrong, Daddy said; they just didn't want to scare Mummy.
She wouldn't get upset if she didn't know. He and Daddy were *very*
good at keeping secrets.
Mummy made a sweeping gesture. "Lee, why did you take *everything*
out of your toy chest?" Her voice sounded as if she didn't know
whether to laugh or get mad.
He couldn't believe she didn't see the logic in his plan. Well, he'd
explain it. "I can't find anything in there." Lee pointed at the
offending chest. "Now I can find everything." Making a sweeping
gesture of his own, he indicated his toys and games, all easy to see,
all accessible. "This way is better."
Mummy sighed and picked her way across his room, avoiding Rupert
Bear's paw. When she reached the chest, she crouched, brushed away a
company of miniature soldiers hiding in a crayon forest, and knelt
beside him. "It may be better for you, Lee," she looked him in the
eye, "but it won't be better for me when I hoover in here. Help me
put things back before your father gets home."
Lee shrugged. He scooped up an armload of Lincoln logs and dumped
them in the brightly-colored box. For a smart person, Mummy sure had
lots of silly rules. She probably couldn't help it; it must be
because she was a Brit, as Daddy said. Lee knew they did funny
things in England, like driving on the wrong side of the road and
calling candy "sweets." Daddy made him laugh out loud when he told
stories about London. Lee was glad he wasn't a Brit. What a funny
word that was!
He and Daddy were Yanks. Lee loved the sound of *that* word. It was
good and solid: Yanks. Yanks knew where to drive and that trick-or-
treaters got candy, not sweets. But because he and Daddy loved
Mummy, despite her odd Brit ways, they tried to make her happy.
Someday, when he was grown up, Lee would leave everything out, right
where he could see it. For now, he'd follow Mummy's rules.
The familiar honk of a car horn in the driveway interrupted his
thoughts, and Lee gasped with delight. He was so busy organizing his
toys he didn't realize how late it was. Normally, he waited in his
tree; from its sturdy branches he could spot the 1953 Chevy from far
down Lincolndale Road. He dropped a fire truck and grabbed the
Matchbox car. "Daddy's home!"
Lee raced through the house, paused to sniff the aroma of fresh-baked
cookies, and burst outside, leaving the front door open behind him.
As he clumped down the porch steps, cold rain spattered his upturned
face. Through the drizzle, he saw Daddy emerging from the car, his
briefcase and car keys in his left hand and a stack of manila folders
under his arm.
"Daddy!" Lee sped across the slippery grass to his father's
side. "Up," he demanded, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Daddy tossed his stuff back in the car, bent down, and, grasping Lee
under the arms, lifted him way up high. "Hey, Sport, what've you
been up to?"
"I found my silver car!" When Lee felt the ground beneath his feet
again, he held up his prized possession. The rain made the car
especially shiny.
Daddy grinned and winked. "Terrific, son. That's a beauty."
Lee grinned back. Now *that* was the reaction he wanted!
Daddy looked toward the house, jangling the ring of keys hooked over
his finger. Following his gaze, Lee saw Mummy peering through the
curtained windows of his bedroom, beckoning. He waved back at her,
enthusiastically.
"Come on, Chief," Daddy urged, "let's take this inside." He raised
his eyebrows. "Where's your coat? Mummy doesn't like you going
outside without it."
Lee shrugged and waited for Daddy to scoop up his papers and
briefcase, tuck them under one arm, and slam the car door shut. When
he squatted to the ground, Lee moved forward and placed his arms
around Daddy's neck. He enjoyed the sensation of being lifted up and
then relaxing against Daddy's strong arm, listening to the car keys
merrily clink in time with each step as they headed toward the
house. When Daddy stepped into the little room Mummy called the
foyer, he closed the door behind them with his foot and deposited Lee
and everything else he was holding onto the floor.
Lee heard the clicking sound of Mummy's heels and saw Daddy glance up
with a dimpled smile. "Hey, Gorgeous," Daddy said, using the special
voice he saved for Mummy. "Miss me?"
Lee noticed Mummy's hands were on her hips and she was shaking her
head. "Honestly, I don't know what to do with the two of you," Mummy
complained, but she was smiling. "Lee, darling, you know you need to
put on your mac when it's raining. I don't want you to get a
chill." Turning to Daddy, she pointed to the tumbled mass of manila
folders, briefcase, and car keys dumped by the front door. "As for
you, Matthew Stetson, you're just pure chaos. No wonder Lee believes
things belong wherever you toss them." Still shaking her head, she
turned toward the kitchen.
Lee watched as Daddy moved forward and executed a really good sneak
attack. Wrapping his arms around Mummy's waist, he leaned in as if
to kiss her. When she put back her head and closed her eyes, Daddy
lifted her up and swung her around, then cut off her surprised
laughter with a kiss. Breaking away at last, he grinned and wiggled
his eyebrows. "Hey, eight hours away from you, Jenny, and all my bad
habits come back. I lost my head from missing you."
Lee giggled. Daddy and Mummy were very silly sometimes.
"Oh, Matt!" Mummy laughed, a warm throaty sound that made Lee feel
nothing bad could ever happen. "Well, you haven't forgotten how to
sweep me off my feet. Good thing you're so persuasive, you cheeky
Yank." She looked from Daddy to Lee and conceded, "I guess I'll have
to put up with you both. This is your home, too, after all."
Part II.
"You can always go home, and when you do, it's nothing. Believe me,
I've done it. Nothing."
Ben Maddow and John Huston, screenplay for "The Asphalt Jungle," 1950.
December 1966
"This is Station WXLG, Armed Forces Radio Service, broadcasting from
U.S. Air Force Base Bucholz. Here's another great tune from The
Beach Boys, `In My Room.'" The plaintive voice of Brian Wilson came
over the air, crooning, "There's a world where I can go/And tell my
secrets to/In my room/In my room."
"Right, my room." Lee snorted, tilting his chair further on its back
legs and surveying his spartan quarters. The room, with its narrow
mattress atop an iron bedstead, scratched pine desk, and green walls,
was indistinguishable from others he briefly called his own on what
seemed like a hundred U.S. Air Force bases. Only the framed
photograph of his parents, the transistor radio, the neatly hung and
folded clothes, and the schoolbooks hinted at the identity of the
current occupant.
Scanning his quarters, Lee noticed a stray pair of socks under the
edge of the bed. He banged his chair to the floor and stood, scooped
up the socks, and flung them into his footlocker. Well, having
almost nothing here simplified passing room inspections. He couldn't
think of anything else positive about being on this godforsaken atoll
in the middle of the Marshall Islands.
He wished his uncle had left him on his home base in California,
under the watchful and affectionate eye of Master Sergeant Barney
Donaldson. Ever since Lee was caught making out with a general's
daughter in the back of a jeep on his fifteenth birthday, he was
dragged to each of Lieutenant Colonel Robert Clayton's postings, no
matter how brief. Lee didn't delude himself that his uncle wanted
his company; the man simply didn't trust him.
They'd be staying only a few weeks on this Air Force base cum missile
test range, halfway between Hawaii and Australia. Lee would make a
few casual friends, pick up a smattering of the language, and go from
being lost to being bored with whatever curriculum was required by
the local school. Then he'd repeat the process somewhere else.
Where would they go next? With his luck, not somewhere he liked--not
Hawaii, continental Europe, or Japan. No, it was winter in the
Northern Hemisphere, so they'd end up in Fairbanks, Fargo, or
Greenland. Or if someplace warm, then the Sahara or the typhoon
belt. Maybe Guam again.
The click of a key in the front door of the military apartment
interrupted his brooding. Lee headed back to his desk and sat down,
adopting the perfect posture his uncle learned at the Air Force
Academy and demanded of him. Running a hand through his hair, he
tried to look engrossed in his chemistry textbook.
As the apartment door slammed shut, he heard the voice of his
paternal half-uncle. At the brusque words, "Skip, I'm home," Lee
curled his lip in derision. "Home"--what was that? Other than the
kitchen of Barney's mess hall, home was some institutional officer's
quarters, wherever Lee Stetson's U.S. passport was most recently
stamped.
Of course, the problem wasn't just constant moves. If the Air Force
kept them somewhere for several months, life would be only marginally
better. His uncle would still regard Lee's presence as an onerous
and irksome duty. They could barely speak for five minutes without
losing their tempers. To cope, they practiced avoidance, a distant
and disciplined co-existence. Unfortunately, his uncle set the
ground rules. Trapped in an endless junior boot camp, Lee considered
all rules arbitrary and meant to be broken.
"It's not forever," Lee muttered to himself. In eighteen months,
he'd reach legal adulthood. Freedom! To most of his peers in the
States, age eighteen signaled legal drinking. To Lee, it was a proxy
for escape from the guardianship of his uncle.
After that glorious day, Lee would make his own decisions--everything
from where to live to where to throw his dirty socks. And those
decisions wouldn't be ruled by U.S. Air Force regulations. Military
housing wasn't "home." If his uncle objected to his housekeeping
choices, well, whose problem was that? When your only relative still
didn't like you after living with you for over a decade, the less you
saw of him, the better. Lee would be perfectly happy on his own.
Part III
"Construed . . . as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a
designation you make upon a place, not one it makes on you."
Richard Ford, "An Urge for Going," Harper's, 1992.
November 1983
Lee sagged against the door of his Georgetown apartment and fit his
key into the lock. Getting home to Washington from Jakarta took
twenty-two hours travel time, with stops in Singapore, Tokyo,
Chicago, and New York, and his debriefing lasted three more hours.
Along with exhaustion and hunger, he felt grubby and disheveled.
Billy would have let him stop at home to change, but Lucas demanded
an immediate report.
Dropping his suitcase and carry-on bag just inside his apartment, Lee
shrugged off his suit jacket and shed garments en route to the
shower. Half an hour later, clad in sweats and a baggy Redskins T-
shirt, he headed into his small kitchen, in the faint hope of finding
something edible.
Hope died as Lee stared at the rolls left over from before his
departure a week ago. Given the amount of green fuzz they sported,
they'd be most useful in a tennis match. Opening the refrigerator,
he was affronted by the sight of moldy cheese, wizened apples, and
curdled milk. Wrinkling his nose at the disgusting smells emanating
from the chilled air, he shut the door. A cursory search of his
cupboards yielded exotic ingredients like saffron, garam masala, wild
rice, and coconut milk. Nothing as simple and easy as a can of soup.
With a sigh, Lee poured a glass of Scotch and pressed number three on
his speed dial--the local Chinese takeout and delivery restaurant.
He headed to the couch to await the arrival of dinner and brushed
newspapers, clothing, magazines, and junk mail from the cushions. He
recalled Amanda recounting how her mother made her move from a place
like his when she was in college. If Dotty West saw her daughter
living in this residence in its current state, she'd call in the
Marines.
No one would guess that Amanda cleaned his apartment three weeks ago,
when twelve-year-old Alexie stayed with him. It took Lee a week to
figure out where she put his stuff. Honestly, what kind of person
alphabetized somebody else's record collection and organized his sock
drawer? Then again, who but Amanda worried about whether the
curtains matched the rug in a house that was a front for
investigating gunrunning in Central America?
He could almost hear Amanda explaining, in her rambling way, that
a "normal" person did things like that. He couldn't fathom why so-
called normal people obsessed about such petty details. Why be so
invested in where you happened to live? If he counted hotels along
with military and civilian apartments and dormitories, he'd lived
hundreds of places. He didn't remember most of them.
A house, like Le Corbusier said, was just "a machine for living in."
Lee's apartment was even less: a place to change clothes, crash,
store his possessions, and perhaps bring his latest sexual conquest.
He was often on assignment in another country, living out of a
suitcase. Even when in Washington, he didn't linger at home. He
worked long hours and preferred a club or a restaurant over here,
unless a lover favored his place over hers. He felt more at home in
his car than in his apartment.
Obviously, Amanda was the opposite. If your occupation was
housewife, it probably made sense to worry about that "Good
Housekeeping" stuff. No wonder the woman was desperate to get
involved in espionage, if that's all she had to occupy her mind.
Still, when he observed Amanda at home--unbeknownst to her, as part
of her background check--she seemed to enjoy things like weeding her
garden, baking cookies, and sewing.
Maybe Amanda cared about mundane activities because she had
children. Lee was so young when his parents died, that his memories
of his childhood home were few and fragmentary. Yet he experienced a
sense of déjà vu as he watched Amanda's domestic routine. Observing
her evoked vivid memories of his mother: singing while washing the
dishes, taking chocolate chip cookies from the oven, cutting flowers,
sewing curtains, good-naturedly picking up after her family.
Maybe the memories returned because Jennifer Stetson and Amanda King
looked alike. They were both tall and slender brunettes, with large
brown eyes. Of course, his mother was beautiful. As Francine put
it, Amanda was reasonably attractive in a suburban sort of way.
In other ways, Lee reminded himself, Amanda was nothing like his
mother. Jennifer Stetson never rambled. Her ironic wit made his
father laugh, though as a little boy he often didn't understand what
was so funny. Even as a small child, he recognized that his mother
was smart, and that his father appreciated her intelligence.
For a few moments, his thoughts lingered on one of his few clear
memories of his parents together. They celebrated their anniversary
two weeks before their deaths. That night, his mother read him a
story, tucked him in, sang to him, and sat with him until he fell
asleep. Later, he awoke. Hearing music and laughter, he snuck out
of bed and took up his surveillance post behind the banister.
He watched his parents dance to a song played on the phonograph,
which, he eventually learned, was Glenn Miller's "Moonlight
Serenade." Closing his eyes, he saw his mother lay her head against
his father's shoulder, and his father engulf her in his loving
embrace, with the fingers of one hand caressing her soft chestnut
hair. In his mind's eye, they shared a passionate kiss, before his
father stepped away and poured them each a glass of champagne. He
could still hear the affection in his father's voice, when he
said, "To you, Mrs. Stetson, the best, brightest, bravest, and most
beautiful woman I've ever known."
Lee started at the sound of a knock at the door, and realized his
dinner had arrived. He paid for the food, tipped the familiar
delivery boy, and carried the square white cardboard containers
inside. Ravenous half an hour ago, he was no longer hungry. Despite
his yearning for home on the trip back from Indonesia, his apartment
seemed cold and empty, not to mention messy. After placing the
untouched food in the refrigerator, he headed into his bedroom,
muttering, "Sleep. I just need sleep."
Part IV.
"'Home' is any four walls that enclose the right person."
Helen Rowland, Reflections of a Bachelor Girl, 1903.
December 1993
Lee gripped the steering wheel of his rental car and calculated the
miles remaining until he reached home. He couldn't wait to get
there.
He'd been miserable in London. It poured rain the entire time. With
the cold, gray dampness seeping through the walls of his poorly-
heated hotel room and into his bones, he came down with a severe
cold. Endless and pointless daily meetings with the insufferable new
head of the anti-terrorist branch of MI6 nearly drove him mad. He
hoped to spend time with Emily Farnsworth, but he learned upon
arrival that she'd been sent, on short notice, to Japan.
And he missed his family. Even when he didn't feel lousy, he had
trouble sleeping without Amanda's supple, slender body wrapped in his
arms, hearing the soothing sound of her breathing. He longed for her
voice, her scent, her touch, her smile, her laugh, her insights, and
her calming influence when he wanted to throttle the priggish British
bureaucrat.
At the thought of rejoining Amanda, Lee's heartbeat and breathing
quickened. Being away from his wife was like coping with the
rarified atmosphere during mountain climbing. Without her, taking a
breath or a step seemed harder than it should be.
And he missed his little girl. Lee smiled at the memory of his four-
year-old daughter hugging him at the airport and reciting her good-
bye mantra: "I love you, be careful, be safe, watch out for the bad
guys and the badgers, and don't cross the line." No one, not even
Jenny, understood why badgers entered her magic litany. She wasn't
afraid of animals--or much of anything. Jenny liked badgers. He
read *Bread and Jam for Frances* aloud to her so often that they
could both recite it from memory.
Decelerating as he entered a highway construction zone, Lee drummed
his fingers against the steering wheel. To keep from losing his
temper, he concentrated on his daughter. Maybe she'd started
the "grow spurt" which she announced was coming on "any minute now."
Combining her mother's slenderness and her father's coloring and
dimples, Jenny was already the tallest child in her Montessori
preschool class—as well as the most talkative, the most energetic,
the most adventurous, and, surely, the smartest.
Of course, he wasn't biased in thinking Jenny superior to every other
child age four-going-on-five. Her grandmother and her brothers
agreed. Pressing on the accelerator with relief, Lee thought how
much he hated being separated from them, too. He missed Dotty's
gentle mothering, her wry wit, and her enthusiastic rambles. And he
repeatedly toyed with the idea of calling Phillip and Jamie to hear
their voices and the latest stories about college life. Smyth's zero
contact order, which barred him from phoning his family, was nothing
but petty vindictiveness. There was nothing top secret about his
meetings with an English paper pusher.
Checking his rearview mirror, Lee passed the battered station wagon
ahead of him. A dog that looked like an incongruous mix of Great
Dane, poodle, and beagle pressed against the car's left rear window,
and it barked at him as he sped past. The sight evoked a touch of
nostalgia for his family's own scruffy mutt, Hotdog, whose lineage
was equally obscure and undistinguished.
While in London, Lee even missed the non-human members of the family
entourage. He wanted to go riding so much he considered renting some
time on a horse in Hyde Park; only the horrible weather and his
miserable cold stopped him. He preferred mucking out their own
horses' stalls to mucking about in inane meetings about protocols for
sharing information. Hell, he missed Jenny's cat, Princess Leia,
pouncing on his head at 5 a.m., mewling at the top of her lungs for
an early breakfast.
Stifling a sneeze, he turned the car's erratic heater up another
notch. He thought of how he missed their warm house: the way it
smelled of lemon furniture oil, laundry detergent, and fresh baked
goods; the large, comfortable rooms; the sound of Amanda singing
along with Christmas music as she decorated the house. He missed the
scattering of Legos, Matchbox cars, stuffed animals, games, books,
and other toys Jenny left in her wake, like the tail of an energetic
and playful little comet. And he missed the quiet countryside
surrounding the old farmhouse outside Rockville. By the end of the
week, the blaring of London's taxi horns and police sirens got on his
nerves like fingernails on a blackboard.
Yawning, Lee considered and then rejected the idea of pulling off the
highway to get coffee. He didn't sleep much on the transatlantic
flight. The air pressure in the plane, coupled with congestion from
the last stage of his cold, gave him a painful sinus headache.
Besides, he was too pissed off at the airline to relax. After
counting down the days and hours until his return, he ran up against
an inexplicable and inexcusable mix-up with his airplane ticket.
Instead of a reservation on a return flight to Washington, he was
given one that landed in New York City. To wait for the next
available flight to D.C. put him further behind schedule, so he
rented a car and began the two hundred mile drive home.
How had he ever put up with this type of thing? Not so long ago he
took in stride twenty-four hours of plane travel with multiple
stopovers. His chilly London hotel room was unbelievably plush
compared to some of the primitive accommodations he experienced in
places like Sri Lanka or Zimbabwe. Living out of a suitcase was once
second nature. He used to enjoy the challenge of fitting in and
getting by when sent somewhere--anywhere--across the globe at a few
hours notice.
Back then, he never experienced this feeling of displacement at being
away, much less this relentless longing to return home. Well, he
never really had a home before he married Amanda, and they came clean
about their ridiculous mystery marriage--the most difficult and
pointless secret he'd kept in his life. After that, he had a home:
not just a physical dwelling with a mortgage, but a family he loved
and who, amazingly, loved him back.
Smiling, Lee turned onto the familiar dirt road and ticked off the
passing landmarks he knew so well: the Nelson's red barn, the copse
of regal oak trees, and the winter brown pasture with its trim white
fence. Pulling into the long driveway, he pressed down on the horn
and waited only a moment before his daughter shot from the front
door, with the energy of a small guided missile.
"Daddy's home!" Jenny shrieked and threw herself into his arms as he
stepped from the car. "Up!" she demanded, and he lifted her high in
the air. Giggling with delight, she launched into a characteristic
rapid-fire Jenny ramble as he carried her to the front door. "I know
what I want for Christmas! I wanna jump out of an airplane! I bet
it's like rollercoasters, only better! You've done it, right? It's
fun, isn't it? I didn't tell Mommy, cuz maybe she thinks it's
scary. Grandma could do it, though. I mean, if Grandma can fly a
plane, she can jump outa one. It's prob'ly lots easier!"
Placing his index finger on his daughter's rosy pink lips, Lee looked
into hazel eyes that mirrored his own. "We'll talk about it."
Raising his eyebrows, he asked, "Where's your coat? You know how
upset Mommy gets—" He was interrupted by the sound of his wife's
husky voice.
"Jennifer Dorothea Stetson! You march right back here and get your
coat on before you catch a cold!" Lee looked up and grinned. When
he reached the porch, he kissed the top of Jenny's head and set her
down, then drew Amanda into his arms. She snuggled against him,
murmuring, "Mmm, I missed you." When she looked up at him, he kissed
her hungrily.
When they broke apart, Amanda took a deep breath and smiled at
him. "How was London?"
He answered her, punctuating each word with another brief
kiss. "Cold . . . rainy . . . pointless . . .and worst of all,
lonely." When they ended the last kiss, he gazed into her beautiful
brown eyes and confessed with feeling, "I couldn't wait to get home."
THE END
Story Notes:
Disclaimer: Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon Productions own these characters. I don't make money from them. The song "In My Room" is the property of Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys, and no copyright infringement is intended. The children's book *Bread and Jam for
Frances* is the copyrighted property of Russell Hoban, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Timing: According to Lee's ISP in "Rumors of My Death," his date of birth was June 17, 1950. Part I takes place in December 1954, and draws upon the flashback scenes in "Unfinished Business." Part II takes place in December 1966, and draws on characters from "A Relative Situation" and "Mission of Gold." Part 3 is set in late November 1983, between "Service Above and Beyond" and "Saved by the
Bells." Part IV is set in December 1993, six years after the end of the series.
Frances* is the copyrighted property of Russell Hoban, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Timing: According to Lee's ISP in "Rumors of My Death," his date of birth was June 17, 1950. Part I takes place in December 1954, and draws upon the flashback scenes in "Unfinished Business." Part II takes place in December 1966, and draws on characters from "A Relative Situation" and "Mission of Gold." Part 3 is set in late November 1983, between "Service Above and Beyond" and "Saved by the
Bells." Part IV is set in December 1993, six years after the end of the series.