Short and inconsequential. Much thanks to Christine for the advice on the ending.
Summary: Ainsley's father writes a letter to his
daughter.
Dear Ainsley,Yes, that was good. Standard beginning. Always unsatisfying -- too personal for a formal letter, too detached for anything else. But appropriate. Robert Hayes -- Bob to his friends, Bobby to his mother -- was a big believer in what was appropriate.
His wife would have written, Dearest Ainsley in her sloping, feminine handwriting. But in his own masculine scrawl, it seemed artificial.
Dear Ainsley,Not perfect -- a little stiff -- but a start. He disliked writing, left it to his aides and colleagues where possible. He could read the speeches they wrote, deliver them in the state legislature in his well-modulated Southern voice, but he couldn't write them. The words, when they came at all, were awkward, unconvincing.Thank you for the birthday present. The sweater fit me perfectly, and I thoroughly enjoyed the book. Both excellent choices.
I was amused by your letter, or at least, what I could read of it. Strange that a woman who presents herself so well should have such appalling handwriting. You should have gone to med school.Yes, gone to med school, where there'd be no possibility of outshining her father.
He suppressed the thought as inappropriate. And unworthy.
I was thinking about your college years recently.A clumsy segue, but the best he could think of.
Your Uncle Steve said that I should have talked you into a different school. Somewhere less liberal, where you wouldn't be exposed to inappropriate material. Those were the words he used. 'Inappropriate material.'Their father had used the word, too. It was a Hayes Word, as integral to their identity as a South Carolina accent and voting Republican.
I told him in no uncertain terms that you were a smart girl, and more than capable of sticking to your beliefs without a political duenna.People did notice her. He'd always been a minor player in state politics, but she had come to the attention of the President. Who mattered, whatever his politics. The President always mattered.Privately, I agreed with him. You were eighteen, and you were my little girl. But I was angry. Mostly at you, but I was afraid that I was making a mistake -- or that you were -- and I was damned if my little brother was going to tell me so. So we fought, and I won (or possibly lost) and I let you go to State.
You made me proud, Ainsley. You fought, you were attacked, and yet you never backed down. You weren't popular, but the people who mattered noticed you.
He should have been happy for her. He turned away from the thought and picked up the pen.
I remember, when you went to Washington. I got a few calls in the first few weeks. "That daughter of yours," they'd say, "she's got quite a mouth on her."Bitch, his wife had said when the rumour reached them. He'd quietly agreed, but said nothing publicly. Rumours spread both ways, after all.You weren't especially popular in Washington, either. You probably know that Mary Marsh refused to consider you for a position on her staff. She felt that your personal presentation was too "flashy." I'm not completely sure what she meant by this, except that you were too pretty and too smart, and she didn't want unflattering comparisons.
I'd expected you to return to South Carolina eventually, or possibly another state. But the South is in your blood. I'd expected you to come home.A Hayes by marriage.I like to say that I think my children are capable of great things, but I never once expected you to end up in the White House. Certainly not a Democrat's White House. My great-aunt --
My great-aunt liked to say that God has a sense of humour. The day we got the call, I had to agree. Bartlet, Ainsley. You're working for Jed Bartlet. Inappropriate material, indeed.Your family, he thought, but didn't write.I was surprised, Ainsley. And disappointed, and worried, because it seemed like you were sacrificing your principles--
-- for your career. And because you were surrounded by charismatic and intelligent people, who make so many things seem attractive. I admit it, Ainsley, I didn't trust your judgment.There. He'd said it, and the world hadn't ended.I was also jealous.
My daughter was in the White House, just because she'd performed for the camera. I was in South Carolina, having spent thirty years working --Working for the people? He stopped writing. If he'd truly been serving the people, then he wouldn't have felt that horrible tightness in his chest and stomach when he'd discovered that Ainsley was working for Bartlet. Hypocrisy. A Hayes was raised to deplore hypocrisy, but there it was. He crossed out the last sentence.
I felt that I should have been there. No logic, just jealousy.He read over what he'd written. Not at all the short letter he'd intended to write. Better, probably. But a daughter shouldn't know that her father had been (was still) jealous of her. It would be awkward. It would be inappropriate.I'm sorry, Ainsley. I was jealous. I am jealous. It's not right, and it's not reasonable, and I'm sorry.
I'm proud of you. You're doing good work, and you're a valuable voice of reason which they should listen to. You never back away from the challenges, and I respect that. I'm proud.
He was about to crumple the letter up and throw it in the bin when he paused. Instead, he folded it up and put it in a drawer. Then he got another piece of paper, dated it and began again.
Dear Ainsley,ENDThankyou for the birthday present. I enjoyed the book, and the sweater fit perfectly. (It also received your mother's seal of sartorial approval, so it can safely be deemed a success.) Your letter amused me intensely, although I see that your handwriting hasn't improved.
Love, Daddy
PS. Your mother sends her love.
Feedback and chocolate: elizabeth_barr@yahoo.com.au
Copyright © 2001 Elizabeth M. Barr
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