11/22/63 Part 47

There were three pictures clipped into Al's notebook, printed off various computer sites. One was of George de Mohrenschildt, wearing a banker-gray suit with a white hankie in the breast pocket. His hair was combed away from his brow and neatly parted in the accepted executive style of the time. The smile that creased his thickish lips reminded me of Baby Bear's bed: not too hard, not too soft, just right. There was no trace of the authentic crazy I would soon observe ripping his s.h.i.+rt open on the porch of 2703 Mercedes Street. Or maybe there was a trace. Something in the dark eyes. An arrogance. A touch of the old f.u.c.k-you.

The second picture was of the infamous shooter's nest, constructed of book cartons, on the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository.

The third was of Oswald, dressed in black, holding his mail-order rifle in one hand and a couple of leftist magazines in the other. The revolver he would use to kill Dallas police officer J. D. Tippit during his f.u.c.ked-up getaway-unless I stopped him-was tucked in Ozzie's belt. This picture would be taken by Marina less than two weeks before the attempt on General Walker's life. The location was the enclosed side yard of a two-apartment building at 214 West Neely Street in Dallas.

While I marked time waiting for the Oswalds to move into the shack across the street from mine in Fort Worth, I visited 214 West Neely often. Dallas most a.s.suredly sucked the big one, as my 2011 students were wont to say, but West Neely was in a slightly better neighborhood than Mercedes Street. It stank, of course-in 1962, most of central Texas smells like a malfunctioning refinery-but the odors of s.h.i.+t and sewage were absent. The street was crumbling but paved. And there were no chickens.

A young couple with three children currently lived upstairs at 214. After they moved out, the Oswalds would move in. It was the downstairs apartment that concerned me, because when Lee, Marina, and June moved in above, I wanted to be below.

In July of '62, the ground-floor apartment was occupied by two women and a man. The women were fat, slow-moving, and partial to wrinkled sleeveless dresses. One was in her sixties and walked with a p.r.o.nounced limp. The other was in her late thirties or early forties. The facial resemblance pegged them as mother and daughter. The man was skeletal and wheelchair-bound. His hair was a thin white spray. A bag of cloudy pee attached to a fat catheter tube sat in his lap. He smoked constantly, tapping into an ashtray clamped to one of the wheelchair armrests. That summer I always saw him dressed in the same clothes: red satin basketball shorts that showed his wasted thighs almost to the crotch, a strap-style tee-s.h.i.+rt nearly as yellow as the urine in his catheter tube, sneakers held together by duct tape, and a large black cowboy hat with what appeared to be a snakeskin band. On the front of the hat were crossed cavalry swords. Either his wife or his daughter would push him out onto the lawn, where he would sit slumped beneath a tree, still as a statue. I began to lift my hand to him as I cruised slowly by, but he never raised his own in turn, although he came to recognize my car. Maybe he was afraid to return my wave. Maybe he thought he was being evaluated by the Angel of Death, who made his rounds in Dallas behind the wheel of an aging Ford convertible instead of on a black horse. In a way, I suppose that's what I was.

This trio looked like they'd been in residence awhile. Were they still going to be in residence next year, when I needed the place? I didn't know. Al's notes said nothing about them. For the time being, all I could do was watch and wait.

I picked up my new piece of equipment, which Silent Mike had crafted himself. I waited for my telephone to ring. Three times it did, and I leaped for it each time, hoping. Twice it was Miz Ellie, calling to chat. Once it was Deke, inviting me to dinner, an invitation I accepted gratefully.

Sadie didn't call.

3.

On the third of August, a '58 Bel Air sedan pulled into 2703's excuse for a driveway. It was followed by a gleaming Chrysler. The Oswald brothers got out of the Bel Air and stood side by side, not talking.

I reached through the drapes long enough to run up my front window, letting in the street noise and a lackl.u.s.ter puff of hot, humid air. Then I ran for the bedroom and brought my new piece of equipment out from under the bed. Silent Mike had cut a hole in the bottom of a Tupperware bowl and taped the omnidirectional mike-which he a.s.sured me was top-of-the-line-into it, so it stuck up like a finger. I attached the microphone leads to the connecting points on the back of the tape recorder. There was a plug-in for headphones, which my electronics pal had also claimed were top-of-the-line.

I peered out and saw the Oswalds talking to the guy from the Chrysler. He was wearing a Stetson, a rancher's tie, and gaudy st.i.tched boots. Better dressed than my landlord, but of the same tribe. I didn't have to hear the conversation; the man's gestures were textbook. I know it ain't much, but then, you ain't got much. Do you, podna? It had to be a hard scripture for a world traveler like Lee, who believed he was destined for fame, if not necessarily fortune.

There was an electrical socket in the baseboard. I plugged in the tape recorder, hoping I wouldn't give myself a shock or blow a fuse. The tape recorder's little red light went on. I donned the earphones and slipped the Tupperware bowl into the gap between the curtains. If they looked over here they'd be squinting into the sun, and thanks to the shadow cast by the eave above the window, they would see either nothing or an unremarkable white blur that might be anything. I reminded myself to cover the bowl with black friction tape, nevertheless. Always safe, never sorry.

And in any case, I could hear nothing.

Even the street sounds had become m.u.f.fled.

Oh yeah, this is great, I thought. This is just f.u.c.king brilliant. Thanks a pantload, Silent Mi- Then I noticed the VOL control on the tape recorder was sitting at zero. I twisted it all the way to the + mark, and was blasted by voices. I tore the earphones off my head with a curse, turned the VOL k.n.o.b to the halfway point, and tried again. The result was remarkable. Like binoculars for the ears.

"Sixty a month strikes me as a little bit steep, sir," Lee Oswald was saying (considering the Templetons had been paying ten dollars a month less, it struck me that way, too). His voice was respectful, tinged by just a trace of Southern accent. "If we could agree on fifty-five . . ."

"I can respect a man who wants to d.i.c.ker, but don't even bother trine," Snakeskin Boots said. He rocked back and forth on his stacked heels like a man who's anxious to be gone. "I gotta git what I gotta git. If I don't git it from you, I'm goan git it from someone else."

Lee and Robert glanced at each other.

"Might as well go in and have a look around," Lee said.

"This a good place on a fam'ly street," Snakeskin Boots said. "Y'all want to watch out for that first porch step, though, it needs a smidge of carpenterin. I got s'many of these places, and people is s'hard on them. That last bunch, law."

Watch it, a.s.shole, I thought. That's Ivy's people you're talking about.

They went inside. I lost the voices, then got them again-faintly-when Snakeskin Boots ran up the front room window. It was the one Ivy had said the neighbors across the way could see into, and she was a hundred percent correct on that score.

Lee asked what his prospective landlord intended to do about the holes in the walls. There was no indignation in the query, no sarcasm, but no subservience, either, in spite of the sir appended to every sentence. It was a respectful yet flat mode of address he had probably learned in the Marines. Colorless was the best word for him. He had the face and voice of a man who was good at sliding through the cracks. In public, at least. It was Marina who saw his other face and heard his other voice.

Snakeskin Boots made vague promises, and absolutely guaranteed a new mattress for the big bedroom, on account of how "that last bunch had gone and stole" the one that had been in there. He reiterated that if Lee didn't want the place someone else would (as if it hadn't been standing vacant all year), then invited the brothers to inspect the bedrooms. I wondered how they would enjoy Rosette's artistic efforts.

I lost their voices, then got them again as they toured the kitchen area. I was happy to see them pa.s.s the Leaning Lamp of Pisa without a glance.

"-bas.e.m.e.nt?" Robert asked.

"No bas.e.m.e.nt!" Snakeskin Boots replied, booming it, as if the lack of a bas.e.m.e.nt were an advantage. Apparently he thought it was. "Neighborhood like this, all they do is s.h.i.+p water. And the damp, law!" Here I lost the vocal track again as he opened the rear door to show them the backyard. Which was not a yard at all but an empty field.

Five minutes later they were out front again. This time it was Robert, the elder brother, who tried to d.i.c.ker. He had no more success than Lee had.

"Will you give us a minute?" Robert asked.

Snakeskin Boots looked at his clunky chromed-up watch, and allowed as how he could do that. "But I got a 'pointment over on Church Street, so you fellas need to hurry on n make up your minds."

Robert and Lee walked to the rear of Robert's Bel Air, and although they pitched their voices low to keep Snakeskin Boots from hearing, when I tilted the bowl in their direction, I got most of it. Robert was in favor of looking at some more places. Lee said he wanted this one. It would do fine for a start.

"Lee, it's a hole," Robert said. "It's throwin your . . ." Money away, probably.

Lee said something I couldn't make out. Robert sighed and raised his hands in surrender. They went back to Snakeskin Boots, who gave Lee's hand a brief pump and praised the wisdom of his choice. He launched into the Landlord Scripture: first month, last month, damage deposit. Robert stepped in then, saying there would be no damage deposit until the walls were fixed and the new mattress was installed.

"New mattress, sure," Snakeskin Boots said. "And I'll see that step fixed so the little woman don't turn her ankle. But if'n I fix them walls right off, I'd have to boost the rent by five a month."

I knew from Al's notes that Lee was going to take the place, and still I expected him to walk away from this outrage. Instead, he took a limp wallet out of his back pocket and removed a thin sheaf of bills. He counted most of them into his new landlord's outstretched hand while Robert walked back to his car, shaking his head in disgust. His eyes turned briefly to my house across the street, then pa.s.sed on, disinterested.

Snakeskin Boots flogged Lee's hand again, then jumped into his Chrysler and drove off fast, leaving a scrunch of dust behind.

One of the jump-rope girls came barreling up on a rusty scooter. "You movin into Rosette's house, mister?" she asked Robert.

"No, he is," Robert said, and c.o.c.ked a thumb at his brother.

She pushed her scooter to Lee and asked the man who was going to blow off the right side of Jack Kennedy's head if he had any kids.

"I've got a little girl," Lee said. He put his hands on his knees so he could get down to her level.

"She purty?"

"Not as pretty as you, nor as big."

"Can she jump rope?"

"Honey, she can't even walk yet." Can't came out cain't.

"Well bullpucky on her." She scooted away in the direction of Winscott Road.

The two brothers turned toward the house. This m.u.f.fled them a little, but when I cranked the volume, I could still make out most of what they were saying.

"This . . . pig in a poke," Robert told him. "When Marina sees it, she'll be on you like flies on a dog-t.u.r.d."

"I'll . . . Rina," Lee said. "But brother, if I don't . . . from Ma and out of that little apartment, I'm apt to kill her."

"She can be a . . . but . . . loves you, Lee." Robert walked a few steps toward the street. Lee joined him, and their voices came through clear as a bell.

"I know it, but she can't help herself. The other night when me n Rina's goin at it, she hollers at us from the foldout. She's sleeping in the livin room, you know. 'Take it easy on that, you two,' she hollers, 'it's too soon for another one. Wait until you can pay for the one you've got.'"

"I know it. She can be hard."

"She keeps buyin things, brother. Says they're for Rina, but shoves em up into my face." Lee laughed and walked back to the Bel Air. This time it was his eyes that skated across 2706, and it took all I had to hold still behind the drapes. And to hold the bowl still, too.

Robert joined him. They leaned on the back b.u.mper, two men in clean blue s.h.i.+rts and workingmen's pants. Lee wore a tie, which he now pulled down.

"Listen to this. Ma goes to Leonard Brothers and comes back with all these clothes for Rina. She drags out a pair of shorts that are as long as bloomers, only paisley. 'Look, Reenie, aren't they purty?' she says." Lee's imitation of his mother's accent was savage.

"What'd Rina say?" Robert was smiling.

"She says, 'No, Mamochka, no, I thank but I no like, I no like. I like this way.' Then she puts her hand on her leg." Lee put the side of his hand on his own, about halfway up the thigh.

Robert's smile widened to a grin. "Bet Ma liked that."

"She says, 'Marina, shorts like that are for young girls who parade themselves on the streets looking for boyfriends, not for married women.' You're not to tell her where we are, brother. You are not. We got that straight?"

Robert didn't say anything for a few seconds. Perhaps he was remembering a cold day in November of 1960. His mama trotting after him along West Seventh, calling out, "Stop, Robert, don't walk so fast, I'm not done with you!" And although Al's notes said nothing on the subject, I doubted if she was done with Lee, either. After all, Lee was the son she really cared about. The baby of the family. The one who slept in the same bed with her until he was eleven. The one who needed regular checking to see if he'd started getting hair around his b.a.l.l.s yet. Those things were in Al's notes. Next to them, in the margin, were two words you'd not ordinarily expect from a short-order cook: hysterical fixation.

"We got it straight, Lee, but this ain't a big town. She'll find you."

"I'll send her packing if she does. You can count on that."

They got into the Bel Air and drove away. The FOR RENT sign was gone from the porch railing. Lee and Marina's new landlord had taken it with him when he went.

I walked to the hardware store, bought a roll of friction tape, and covered the Tupperware bowl with it, outside and inside. On the whole, I thought it had been a good day, but I had entered the danger zone. And I knew it.

4.

On August 10, around five in the afternoon, the Bel Air reappeared, this time pulling a small wooden trailer. It took Lee and Robert less than ten minutes to carry all of the Oswalds' worldly goods into the new manse (being careful to avoid the loose porch board, which had still not been fixed). During the moving-in process, Marina stood on the crabgra.s.sy lawn with June in her arms, looking at her new home with an expression of dismay that needed no translation.

This time all three of the jump-rope girls appeared, two walking, the other pus.h.i.+ng her scooter. They demanded to see the baby, and Marina complied with a smile.

"What's her name?" one of the girls asked.

"June," Marina said.

Then they all jumped in. "How old is she? Can she talk? Why don't she laugh? Does she have a dolly?"

Marina shook her head. She was still smiling. "Sorry, I no spik."

The three girls pelted off, yelling "I no spik, I no spik!" One of the surviving Mercedes Street chickens flew out of their way, squawking. Marina watched them go, her smile fading.

Lee came out on the lawn to join her. He was stripped to the waist, sweating hard. His skin was fishbelly white. His arms were thin and slack. He put an arm around her waist, then bent and kissed June. I thought Marina might point at the house and say no like, I no like-she had that much English down-but she only handed Lee the baby and climbed to the porch, tottering for a moment on the loose step, then catching her balance. It occurred to me that Sadie probably would have gone sprawling, then limped on a swollen ankle for the next ten days.

It also occurred to me that Marina was as anxious to get away from Marguerite as her husband was.

5.

The tenth was a Friday. On Monday, about two hours after Lee had left for another day of putting together aluminum screen doors, a mud-colored station wagon pulled up to the curb in front of 2703. Marguerite Oswald was out on the pa.s.senger side almost before it stopped rolling. Today the red kerchief had been replaced by a white one with black polka dots, but the nurse's shoes were the same, and so was the look of dissatisfied pugnacity. She had found them, just as Robert had said she would.

Hound of heaven, I thought. Hound of heaven.

I was looking out through the crack between the drapes, but saw no point in powering up the mike. This was a story that needed no soundtrack.

The friend who had driven her-a portly gal-struggled out from behind the wheel and fanned the neck of her dress. The day was already another scorcher, but Marguerite cared nothing for that. She hustled her chauffeur around to the trunk of the station wagon. Inside was a high chair and a bag of groceries. Marguerite took the former; her friend hoisted the latter.

The jump-rope girl with the scooter came riding up, but Marguerite gave her short shrift. I heard "Scat, child!" and the jump-rope girl rode away with her lower lip pooched out.

Marguerite marched up the bald rut that served as a front walk. While she was eyeing the loose step, Marina came out. She was wearing a smock top and the kind of shorts Mrs. Oswald didn't approve of for married women. I wasn't surprised that Marina liked them. She had terrific legs. Her expression was one of startled alarm, and I didn't need my makes.h.i.+ft amplifier to hear her.

"No, Mamochka-Mamochka, no! Lee say no! Lee say no! Lee say-" Then a quick rattle of Russian as Marina expressed what her husband had said in the only way she could.

Marguerite Oswald was one of those Americans who believe foreigners are sure to understand you if you just speak slowly . . . and very LOUDLY.

"Yes . . . Lee . . . has . . . his . . . PRIDE!" she bugled. She climbed to the porch (deftly avoiding the bad step) and spoke directly into her daughter-in-law's startled face. "Nothing . . . wrong . . . with that . . . but he can't . . . let . . . my GRANDDAUGHTER . . . pay . . . the PRICE!"

She was beefy. Marina was willowy. "Mamochka" steamed inside without a second look. This was followed by a moment of silence, then a longsh.o.r.eman's bellow.

"Where's that little CUTIE of mine?"