Thunder of Eagles

“Billy, you know there is no way for that to be,” Kathleen said. “I will see you at the dance. For now, we must be satisfied with that.”

“Trade menus with me,” Billy said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Trade menus with me,” Billy repeated.

“All right,” Kathleen replied, puzzled by the request. She handed her menu to Billy and took his. When she opened it, she saw a piece of paper. “What is this?” she asked.

“It’s something I wrote for you while I was in Pueblo,” Billy said.

To Kathleen

Like a blooming flower to behold,

Your beauty shines through.

If only I were so bold

To declare my love for you.

But cruel is the fate

That keeps us apart.

Divided by families that hate,

I cannot speak what is in my heart.

Were I free to share with you

The words that I hold so dear,

There is nothing I would rather do

Than to whisper them in your ear.

But a Clinton am I, and Garrison you are,

Enemies, or so it seems.

I can but love you from afar

And hold you only in my dreams.

“Oh, Billy, it’s beautiful,” Kathleen said. “Nobody has ever written a poem for me before.”

“Please don’t tell anyone I wrote it for you.”

“Why not? It is beautiful, you should be very proud of it. I know that I am.”

“You don’t understand,” Billy said. “If my brothers found out that I wrote poetry, I would never hear the end of it.”

“Oh, pooh on your brothers,” Kathleen said. She sighed. “But under the circumstances, I will keep it quiet.”

“Thanks,” Billy said.

“Billy, I will keep it always,” Kathleen promised.

“Here comes your father,” Billy said. “It might be better if I leave now.”

“I will see you Saturday?”

“Yes,” Billy said.

“Mr. Clinton, are you not going to order dinner?” the waiter asked as he saw Billy leaving.

“Later perhaps,” Billy said. “I just realized there was something I needed to do.”

Billy passed Wade Garrison just as he was coming into the restaurant.

“Good evening, General,” he said.

Garrison nodded, but said nothing in reply. Walking to the rear of the restaurant, he pulled a chair out from his daughter’s table.

“I see young Billy Clinton was in here,” he said as he sat down.

“Yes, he was.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Briefly.”

“I’ve told you, I don’t want you to have anything to do with him,” Garrison said.

“Papa, he is not like the others,” Kathleen insisted.

“He is a Clinton and you are a Garrison. That should say it all,” Wade said, ending the conversation.

Kathleen did not respond. She was glad the conversation had ended.

Chapter Eleven