Daisy Buchanan's Daughter, Book 1: Cadwaller's Gun (Volume 1)
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She was born during the Jazz Age and grew up in Paris and the American Midwest after her father’s death on the polo field and her mother’s later suicide. As a young war reporter, she waded ashore on Omaha Beach and witnessed the liberation of Dachau. She spent the 1950s hobnobbing in Hollywood with Marlene Dietrich and Gene Kelly. She went to West Africa as an Ambassador’s wife as the New Frontier dawned. She comforted a distraught Lyndon Baines Johnson in Washington, D.C., as the Vietnam war turned into a quagmire. And today? Today, it’s June 6, 2006: Pamela Buchanan Murphy Gerson Cadwaller’s eighty-sixth birthday. With some asperity, she’s waiting for a congratulatory phone call from the President of the United States. Brother, is he ever going to get a piece of her mind.
packed for the Airborne would probably have alarmed me right out of my skin. All the same, his wife’s wartime blossoming from a little book reviewer into a gallivantingly slangy American broad most available at our local newsstand can’t have put many songs in Bran’s heart. Since everything I was doing felt gloriously natural, its improvised artifices not only included but exulted in, even I didn’t recognize the extent of Pam’s metamorphosis until I saw it in not my hubby’s face but Mr.
complained for the third time about how gunky it felt. She asked her daughter to look away when she stood up with water cascading and reached for her robe, and I did even though I regret it. She called me “Pammie,” not “darling,” during most of the bath. She never mentioned the Lotus Eater. She never touched me, not once, not even when we were both toweled. I’d never done towel turban before. She helped. That was as close as she came. Not once. Other than that, for once I don’t
contents may not only explain my sense of having some standing as well as a stake in all this but provide a reductively psychological explanation for the origin of my anti-Potus animus. Posted by: Pam My mother was Daisy Fay Buchanan. Unknown now except to Jazz Age specialists, she was one of the nudest pearls in that era’s champagne goblet until the scandal whose aftershocks, ultimately leading Mother and me to sail for Europe in confusion (hers and definitely mine), italicized my
trivialize things that way. Unlike Bran, I was never a defender of the Soviet Union under Stalin. That may’ve been a symptom of temperament rather than belief: like all defeated factions, the Trotskyites made better jokes. Even so, my main later disagreement with Jake Cohnstein—we did some colloquium in the late Seventies, Pam subbing for a too busy Mary McCarthy—was and is my inability to see why rejecting Communism’s travesty of the ideals we’d thought we were furthering should require
It’s just as well I never told Murphy. He’d have columned firth on the spot. Posted by: Pam So there we are in the cab—see, youse guys? My future hubby has just unloaded a flagrantly anti-Semitic remark. Pam has done her best to riposte. If you’re wondering why I didn’t stop the cab instead, end this future before it began—ah, well. I repeat: June 1941. I was four years away from seeing my radio colleague Eddie Whitling, the most cynical man I’ve ever known, break down in tears