Still Waters Run Deep

Another fall evening was coming on, and the tree-filled D.C. neighborhood lay in shadow; only an occasional car horn or throaty muffler disturbed the quiet. It was a modest, well-established neighborhood that had seen generations of Washington's “supporting cast” come and go—families raised, marriages dissolved, lives ebbing and flowing over the decades.

At the end of one street, somewhat set back from the others and quite discreet behind now large maple and sycamore trees, sat the home of eighty-five-year-old George Haybury, a quiet man, a bachelor, who had lived here since childhood. Retired now, George lived as quietly as his surroundings, tending his garden in summer and pursuing genealogical research through the winter.

Tonight, like most Friday nights, George made himself a special meal, usually something French and opened a bottle of a good French wine to accompany the meal and for afterwards.

By 8:00 p.m. he had finished dinner, washed the dishes, cleaned up the kitchen and settled down with what was left of the wine to spend the next half hour remembering, celebrating and mourning the loves of his life.

He turned on the TV and changed the channel to the local PBS affiliate. As the theme tune began, George leaned back, closed his eyes and remembered the two people he had loved most, though he had never been able to express fully what either had meant to him. Tonight, as with each Friday night, he was able to do so in his own particular way.

He heard the voice of the PBS announcer say, “This program is made possible by George D. Haybury III, in memory of Mary Jane ‘Bunny’ Walton and his brother, Jay Haybury.”

That’s it, maybe ten seconds, then the recognition of additional major donors continued before Washington Week with The Atlantic began. George watched and listened, but his mind went back to sixty years earlier, when he, a recent graduate from GWU and his brother Jay, eighteen months his junior, made their first trip to Paris.

They returned to their small table, but the waiter, who had witnessed the scene, now directed them to a larger one, just inside the café. They spent the rest of the evening talking and getting to know each other. Jay seemed a bit too enthralled by the young woman, thought George. She was nice, seemed to have good “credentials” and, like Jay, was about to finish up her college work at Wellesley.  Her name was Mary Jane, but her family in Providence had always called her “Bunny,” for reasons she’d long forgotten, but she liked it.

The three were becoming fast friends and for the rest of their stay in Paris, they stuck together. George was not happy at this turn of events. He had enjoyed having Jay all to himself and sharing this trip with him alone. He did like Bunny; she was intelligent, attractive, a great storyteller and had a wonderful sense of humor. Time with her was fun, and, of course, he still had Jay with him at night, to share thoughts together as they drifted off to sleep, much as they had always done as boys growing up together, sharing the same bedroom.

As the weeks progressed, it became clear that Jay was showing more than a passing interest in Bunny. He would confide to George during “pillow talk” moments that he was enchanted by her and wanted to pursue the relationship. George, the faithful and loving big brother, was jealous, but he was also practical and cared for Jay's happiness. So, he cautiously supported Jay in his infatuation.

Bunny, on the other hand, had her eyes on George. She preferred his maturity, his interiority, his thoughtfulness, his sense of responsibility, traits she lacked, but so admired in others. She tried to convey her feelings in discreet ways: a brush of a hand, a peck on his cheek, a single rose from a sidewalk vendor dramitically handed not to Jay, but to George, who was aware of all of this but remained aloof.

The Paris summer was quickly passing and soon the three young Americans would be flying back to their homes, George and Jay to Washington and Bunny to Boston. Jay was hopelessly infatuated with Bunny and seemed oblivious to her gestures toward George. He intended to pursue her.

On a warm August morning, the three said their goodbyes at Orly Airport. Jay asked Bunny for her address, and would it be all right if he were to come up to Boston one weekend and take her out. She said “yes,” but she glanced at George, who was staring at Jay, to gauge his reaction to that proposal. There was none and that told her all she needed to know.

The new school year progressed; Jay found himself frequently on the train to Boston for weekends with Bunny. George had taken a job with the Department of Defense school system, helping administer educational programs for the children of American servicemen and women at home and overseas. He enjoyed the work, and the travel, while sometimes arduous, was interesting. The salary was modest, but he was content.

It was the following summer, in 1963, that his world crashed. Jay and Bunny were now romantically and physically involved and engaged to be married. Their wedding was set for that October, at Bunny’s family home in Rhode Island, with a honeymoon in Paris.

That was over sixty years ago. Nothing much changed in all that time. His parents died in the 1990s leaving him the house in the quiet D.C. neighborhood known as The Palisades. In 1978, a friend had persuaded George and his father to put $10,000 into a small software company in which he was involved. George understood almost nothing about the business, except that his friend was convinced personal computers were the future. The years passed and he saw his investment grow but wasn’t moved to do anything with it but leave it where it was. By 2000, having inherited his father’s portion in this investment, George was worth over $25 million. He continued to work, to garden and remember. In 2010, he retired from the DoD and lived well in this cozy home on his government retirement.

As he approached his 80th birthday, he began to realize that all that wealth he had accumulated, but had never touched, needed to be addressed. So, George began to liquidate his holdings, donating sums, large and small, mostly anonymously, to varied non-profits, charities and political causes in which he believed, one of which was public television.

It was then that he saw an opportunity to memorialize his brother and his almost sister-in-law in a simple, but meaningful way to him. He would become a major donor to a program that he especially liked, Washington Week with The Atlantic. Each week, Jay’s and Bunny’s names would be heard in homes across the country. Some viewers might even stop and wonder who these people were. They would be remembered, if only in a fleeting and obscure way.