about 6 a.m ., as he had been making coffee in the kitchen, Jeff had come out of the bedroom and had said, "I've got a surprise for the kids and I want you to come down and take a look."
The two of them had dressed quickly and quietly and had driven a few miles to the stable which housed the pony Jeff had bought. Returning to the apartment, Jeff had told Colette that he'd ordered a gift for the children but that the department store had fouled it up. If they would all get in the car, however, he could at least take them down and show it to them in the window.
They had started down Bragg Boulevard toward Fayetteville, but had quickly turned off on a side road. Colette had asked why. Jeff had been vague, saying, "Well, I've got to stop here and pick something up."
Then they reached the corral and got out of the car and Jeff said, "I want you to see something over here," and he and Freddy led them over and showed them the pony.
For years, Jeff and Colette had told friends that their dream was to someday have a farm in Connecticut, with five children, horses, and lots of dogs. Jeff would practice at a university hospital—probably Yale—and Colette would have her teaching certificate. This Christmas pony was the first tangible step— other than the two children, with the third due in July—toward that goal.
Colette had been so happy, Freddy Kassab recalled, that it had taken her almost half an hour to stop crying.
Residents of Castle Drive were now beginning to emerge from their apartments, some in bathrobes, just bending over to pick up the Sunday paper from the stoop. It would soon be time for Freddy Kassab to return to his grieving wife. But he lingered just a few minutes longer in front of 544 Castle Drive. This was the last place he had seen Colette and Kimberly and Kristen alive and it seemed as close as he would ever be to them again.
The bodies were flown north at 1 p.m . Sunday, in the cargo hold of the Piedmont Airlines plane on which Freddy and Mildred Kassab and Jeffrey MacDonald's mother rode.
Five days earlier they had flown down together, their nervous, apprehensive curiosity gradually giving way to a stifling, overwhelming sense of dread.
Now, as they flew back in silence, there remained nothing to dread. The worst had happened—the worst that could ever happen to anyone—and its effects would govern the remainder of their lives.
Mildred Kassab stared out the window of the plane. The one thought that tormented her above all others was a recollection of her final conversation with Colette.
She had called from Long Island late Sunday afternoon—less than thirty-six hours before Colette's death. Jeff had been working his twenty-four-hour shift at Hamlet Hospital, and Colette, five months pregnant, had been stuck without a car, in February, in the small, cramped apartment on the Southern military base, with her two children bored and restless and confined to the apartment by the rain.
Colette had asked if she could bring Kimberly and Kristen north for a visit. Mildred had looked out at the backyard, where snow was falling. In the fall, the Kassabs had begun construction of a swimming pool. When completed, they felt, it would be something that the children coul d enjoy for years to come. Now, however, in mid-February, it was just a deep hole in the ground, surrounded by tall piles of slippery, snow-covered dirt. Mildred had thought that it might pose a hazard for Kimberly and Kristen. So instead of saying, "Catch the first flight tomorrow,'' she had responded with words that would haunt her the rest of her life. "Wait until spring," she had said.
Now, on the plane, she was suddenly struck by the unwelcome thought that Colette had not had to wait until spring after all. And that she and the children were coming north not for a visit, but to stay.
The Voice of Jeffrey MacDonald
Through that year, my freshman year at Princeton, Colette clearly became the love of my life. There was no
The two of them had dressed quickly and quietly and had driven a few miles to the stable which housed the pony Jeff had bought. Returning to the apartment, Jeff had told Colette that he'd ordered a gift for the children but that the department store had fouled it up. If they would all get in the car, however, he could at least take them down and show it to them in the window.
They had started down Bragg Boulevard toward Fayetteville, but had quickly turned off on a side road. Colette had asked why. Jeff had been vague, saying, "Well, I've got to stop here and pick something up."
Then they reached the corral and got out of the car and Jeff said, "I want you to see something over here," and he and Freddy led them over and showed them the pony.
For years, Jeff and Colette had told friends that their dream was to someday have a farm in Connecticut, with five children, horses, and lots of dogs. Jeff would practice at a university hospital—probably Yale—and Colette would have her teaching certificate. This Christmas pony was the first tangible step— other than the two children, with the third due in July—toward that goal.
Colette had been so happy, Freddy Kassab recalled, that it had taken her almost half an hour to stop crying.
Residents of Castle Drive were now beginning to emerge from their apartments, some in bathrobes, just bending over to pick up the Sunday paper from the stoop. It would soon be time for Freddy Kassab to return to his grieving wife. But he lingered just a few minutes longer in front of 544 Castle Drive. This was the last place he had seen Colette and Kimberly and Kristen alive and it seemed as close as he would ever be to them again.
The bodies were flown north at 1 p.m . Sunday, in the cargo hold of the Piedmont Airlines plane on which Freddy and Mildred Kassab and Jeffrey MacDonald's mother rode.
Five days earlier they had flown down together, their nervous, apprehensive curiosity gradually giving way to a stifling, overwhelming sense of dread.
Now, as they flew back in silence, there remained nothing to dread. The worst had happened—the worst that could ever happen to anyone—and its effects would govern the remainder of their lives.
Mildred Kassab stared out the window of the plane. The one thought that tormented her above all others was a recollection of her final conversation with Colette.
She had called from Long Island late Sunday afternoon—less than thirty-six hours before Colette's death. Jeff had been working his twenty-four-hour shift at Hamlet Hospital, and Colette, five months pregnant, had been stuck without a car, in February, in the small, cramped apartment on the Southern military base, with her two children bored and restless and confined to the apartment by the rain.
Colette had asked if she could bring Kimberly and Kristen north for a visit. Mildred had looked out at the backyard, where snow was falling. In the fall, the Kassabs had begun construction of a swimming pool. When completed, they felt, it would be something that the children coul d enjoy for years to come. Now, however, in mid-February, it was just a deep hole in the ground, surrounded by tall piles of slippery, snow-covered dirt. Mildred had thought that it might pose a hazard for Kimberly and Kristen. So instead of saying, "Catch the first flight tomorrow,'' she had responded with words that would haunt her the rest of her life. "Wait until spring," she had said.
Now, on the plane, she was suddenly struck by the unwelcome thought that Colette had not had to wait until spring after all. And that she and the children were coming north not for a visit, but to stay.
The Voice of Jeffrey MacDonald
Through that year, my freshman year at Princeton, Colette clearly became the love of my life. There was no
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