“Sweetheart, I told Mutty his mother is a remarkable woman. And you know what? I was right”
IT had been a sleepless night, but a productive one. At least Annie knew now what she had to do.
Not a decision; not yet. But perhaps a way she could think cooly and rationally about the irrational situation she’d been dragged into. A way she could cut through the thicket of emotions that was threatening to entangle her and find the path that would lead to her goal, and, yes, to Abie’s goal as well: to do what was best for their son.
Last night, when she’d calmed down from her outburst, she and Abe had discussed the situation for more than an hour. But all her husband’s speculation — would LBJ send in ground troops, could the US advisors train the South Vietnamese army properly, was the South Vietnamese government so corrupt that it could not govern — had meant very little to her.
They’d finally agreed to discuss it further in the morning. Abe — whose uncanny ability to sleep through every crisis, large and small, was a running joke between him and Annie — was asleep in minutes, leaving Annie alone with her thoughts and fears. And, eventually, her idea for how to make a decision.
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