Imperative Fate

Ellie Anne Moss: Call of a Siren

2/14/98

Darling Harold,

I hope this letter finds you soon and absent of company. If not, I'd advise you to excuse yourself. Those Congressional hens you surround yourself with can be too shrewd of facial expression. Tell them you have to phone the Speaker or the President and lock the door. Burn this when you're done. We know too well the detriment of evidence. We've seen negative press dislodge families and mutate men.

Remember that time you caught a glimpse of a note my friend sent? It wasn't meant for you, but you and I joined hands and lips afterwards, and I wouldn't want anything as nasty as that to happen to you again; I can be such a handful. But as you know, I'm in a much better place than what that note detailed: I'm not drinking anymore; I've detached from liquor. I'm not sad anymore; I've split from any self-deprecating notions.

Because of you. Because you held my hand sticky with malt and kissed my forehead burning with resentment and embarrassment as I was contemplating what the world would be like without me.

But what I want to know is, when are you going to divorce something, somebody? When are you going to unfasten your golden wedding shackles? When are you going to accost my lips without yours sopping with guilt?

Isn't it about time you stop playing politics and run for me, negotiate for me, stump for me?

I realize it's harder to do than ignore the silver in your blond hair or tie the hundred-dollar silk around your neck, but I thought you promised me. I think you love me. But now I'm not so sure if I'm just scavenging for reason, setting myself up for failure.

When my father died, you were the only one who wasn't merely entertaining me. You didn't just tousle my blonde bangs and feed me the anemic placebo, "It'll get better." You didn't cling to one extreme or the other—ignore me until I wanted to kiss Death or irk me until I wanted to choke you. You ardently wanted to spend time with me and hold me in your lap and teach me about politics and history and life . . . but only when I wanted to do that.

You wanted to emulate the man I lost and still love: Daddy. You wanted to be this quasi acceptable replacement. And I needed that; I need to retain that tourniquet, Harold.

But now I need something a little more. I need another facet filled. I need a savior, a long-term moderator. A lover.

You said in that sweet, slow, exhausted accent that I'm "the most enjoyable company around Congress despite the hundreds—the thousands—of allegedly cultured people," that you hate being locked in a loveless marriage, and that we're a "good mix."

Well, I'm Catherine and you're Hareton. I'm Lolita and you're Humbert.

Or maybe we would be, but you're tied to an ill-begotten commitment to your wife and to America. You're supposed to be a hearty family man, and I'm just a girl, a daughter of a colleague you barely liked.

And those things are true, yes, but they're not as clear as imported Cristal. They're not sedentary or inflexible.

I don't want to push you off the Statue of Liberty or out of Congress, but I do want to see if you're pulling for me. Do you really want to see me get better? Do you really want to see me happy? Or do you want to spend the rest of your life with a woman you gave a ring to a decade ago, who you barely recognize?

Then stop dragging the corpse of your marriage along the rocks before you're infected with complete atrophy too, Harold. I love you. Your wife does not. She fills up her heart with pretty friends, prestige, and blood diamonds instead. I may not be as tall, charming, or as exotic as your wife, but I love you and isn't that the point?

I don't care that I'm a sweet sixteen and you're an experienced thirty-six. I don't care that I've been made an orphan, or that you've always been a politician. I like the way you roll your words because you're a California cowboy. I like how you tighten the bows in my hair, compliment the white stocking on my legs, and silently ogle the short, frilly dresses I wear. I like when you put your slightly wind-chapped hands on my elbows when I'm fixing myself in the mirror before we go to a Senate party. And I'd love to see you sacrifice for me, to see you cut the (dis)cord today.

Furthermore, I'd love to leave hot pink kisses on your cheeks when I hear you at my door and leap into your strong, furred arms before you deliver a speech to thousands. I'd love to go with you to get your suits tailored and have an up-or-down vote on which tie looks the best against a blue dress shirt. To wake beside you every morning and dress up for you every evening to knock out that stress you carry from work. And, most of all, I'd love to see us shine together, shrug off our oppressors and denounce the hungry gossipers.

Do the words I used in this letter bolster your judgment? If my words aren't enough, does the "Le Premier Parfum" I used in this letter tickle your nose? I heard you say it's your favorite, but your wife never wears it for you.

If not even all that will tickle your fancy, I promise you this: I'll hold you through the turbulence for all you've done for me and for all people have accused you of having done; I'll comb your hair pretty for the press and diminish all of their lies. By the time you're a silver fox, I'll release you when/if you want to run. Remember, my daddy built an empire as Speaker that can serve you well if you choose. Together, we can resurrect sleeping bills and put to rest our self-restricting constitutions. Just untether your complications, your inhibitions, like you showed me how to do.

You may think you're a monster for considering the unthinkable, "running off" with me on a wide-eyed excursion called love & politics, but there's no shame in honesty and self-expression.

I'm glitter in your hands. Blow me away. Set me in desire like the sunlight.

Awaiting,

Ellie Anne