Sunset at Hickory Hill

Chapter II: "Rischio"

DISCLAIMER: CONTAINS REFERENCES TO MATURE THEMES SUCH AS SUICIDE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

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Spring, 1956

In the brightly lit kitchen of her suburban home, Barbara stood at the counter, meticulously slicing up vegetables for the night's dinner with the Kennedys. She hummed softly to herself as she worked, enjoying the meditative rhythm of the knife against the cutting board.

But as she sliced through a particularly tough carrot, the knife slipped, and she felt a sudden, sharp pain in her finger. She yelped in surprise and pulled her hand back, inspecting the small but deep cut on her finger. Blood welled up from the wound, staining her skin and the cutting board below.

For a moment, she stared at the cut in morbid fascination, feeling a strange detachment from the pain. Then, suddenly, the world around her began to fade away...

Summer, 1944

Barbara Freeman was a precocious 16-year-old girl living in McLean, Virginia in the summer of 1944. She was the youngest of three children, with two older brothers, Frank and Clark. Unlike her brothers, She'd always been very close to her father, Allen Freeman, a scion of the wealthy Freeman Shipping empire which he'd inherited from his own father.

The Freemans were some of the most prominent families in McLean, with a sprawling estate on the outskirts of town. Originally from Georgia, old man James Freeman — Barbara's grandfather — had moved the family up north to Virginia following the Civil War. Their house was a grand old mansion, filled with antique furniture and oil paintings, and surrounded by acres of manicured gardens and rolling hills, which Barbara had spent many a summer's days sitting underneath, practically devouring books she could get her hands on, to the delight of her own slightly bookish father. Such was the life she'd enjoyed until her father had received the notice from the draft board to ship out, though he'd gotten lucky. Army Logistical Corps, on the count of his profession. Less rischio, as he'd reassured Barbara's mother Alice and the others in the family. Less rischio. He'd always been fond of Italian.

But it was not to be. She remembered that call on that hot August day in 1944 when her father's ship was attacked by Japanese Kamikaze aircraft in the Pacific theatre. The ship had been carrying vital supplies to American troops in the region, and Lieutenant Allen Freeman of the United States Marine Corps Quartermasters Office had been on board as a passenger. He had been travelling to the front lines to personally oversee the delivery of the supplies, playing poker with some buddies on the ship's lower deck, oblivious to the Japanese dive bombers about to tear his ship into shreds. The ship had been successfully hit by three aircraft and was engulfed in flames. Many of the crew members and passengers had been killed instantly, and others were badly injured. Lieutenant Freeman had been — according to the monotonous call Alice had received from the War Department — one of the lucky ones. He had survived the initial blast but had suffered severe burns and internal injuries. Their local parish Church had even included a prayer for Al Freeman during congregation on Sunday.

He'd been rushed to an army field hospital on a nearby island, but his condition had quickly deteriorated. Despite the best efforts of the medical staff, he'd slipped into a coma three days later and had died a few hours following, deliriously telling the young nurse as he faded in and out of consciousness that she'd so resembled his daughter, Barbs, whilst clutching his rosary.

The news of his death had been relayed to McLean by telegram, and the Army chaplain and one of his injured comrades — one who'd been saved by Lieutenant Freeman as their ship had sliced practically in half — had come to the Freeman house to deliver the news in person. That day, Barbara had, as she always did, been skipping back inside, A Tale of Two Cities clutched under her arm. She'd realised something was amiss when she saw the olive-coloured Buick outside with the Army Star painted on the door. Her little observation was further compounded by her mother's yell "Go upstairs, Barbie! We'll talk later." Disobeying her mother's order, she'd taken a seat on the staircase, eavesdropping on the conversation between the chaplain and her mother, Alice. Always a curious and precocious girl, with a sharp mind and an insatiable thirst for knowledge, she had a habit of listening in on conversations, even when she knew she shouldn't. In retrospect, it'd have maybe been better had she not listened in on this occasion.