BLACK PRESIDENT, CHAPTER 12. Leon has psychological damage from spike incident. And racism boils over in Birmingham. Her employee's 10-cent coffee deposit paints a stern portrait of Rose Kennedy.

If U live in Japanese here's your 'Kennedy' copy: https://www.amazon.co.jp/dp/B08NWCN6XG

5つ星のうち5.0 Incredible

2008年12月18日に英国でレビュー済み

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“Unable to get a publishing deal in USA, this is one of the most shocking and compelling books you will ever read. Mixing fact with fiction it is at times highly inappropriate, almost libelous, possibly defamatory, ridiculously daring and desirable. Desirable because the fact that it could not get a US book deal or at least was turned down, means that it will now be in that rare and special class of item that is `precious to own'. In the authors note the book is described as "a footloose fictional rendition of past events in American history".
Starting in 1961, written in documentary style, the book ends in 2012, as America elects it's first black President. Long before this point you will have realized that this book has nothing to do with Obama as the title may suggest. Truth is stranger than fiction. 2012's election of the first black president may have seemed improbable but it happened four years earlier in reality. Sadly, September 11, 2001 is not fiction. If the writer had written about 9/11 in 1997 for example, we would have criticized his audacity and far-fetched writing style.”

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CHAPTER TWELVE

The days of Waiting for her husband to recoup his strength were stressful on Sarah. If it hadn’t been for Bela generous offer to share her income, how could Leon and her afford to raise the coming twins, keep a roof over their heads? Sarah tried to walk off the worries, regularly strolling over to Ron’s station with the latest reports on her husband. Sam Harris always seemed happy to hear the updates.

“He went to the bathroom without help, so I’d expect him down here soon,” said Sarah, and that got some high-fives from the old duffers. The doctors had been concerned about possible spine damage, she said, but Leon had finally been told that that wasn’t the case. No. Spine was fine. The doctors said it wasn’t so much physical anymore, but just mental. That’s what they had said to her in hushed tones. Something about “a spike.”

“But...Leon didn’t hit a spike, did he?” Sarah had asked, confused by the latest diagnosis.

“That’s correct. All we know...” Dr. Goldstein began to say something, then halted and changed his tactic. He was a thin-faced, Jewish fellow who talked very softly even when he wasn’t deliberately whispering.

“No. He didn’t hit a stake. That’s not the problem. The problem is thinking he COULD have hit the spike.”

Dr. Goldstein went on to describe how Leon’s mind wasn’t able to accept that he didn’t land on it...or something like that. It was about “loss of control.” Before the accident Leon felt in control of his universe, that being the everyday working environment of his garage. Then, in one simple action he realized that accidents could happen. The spike represented even worse possibilities. Its long, rusty shaft, with its phallic shape, had come to symbolize for Leon a threat to his manhood, and, perhaps, a harsh reminder of his mortality. Sarah didn’t ask Dr. Goldstein to elaborate any more. It all seemed so stupid to her. Why couldn’t Leon just be happy he missed it, missed being impaled by a spike? He was lucky. Why wasn’t that enough? She left the doctor’s office more confused than when she went in.

When Woofy arrived at the station he gave his old Buick a couple big honks, sounding the alert that he was ready to load Sam Harris in and take a nice drive down to the Seattle Fisherman’s Wharf for an oyster sandwich.

HONK, HONK. The Buick’s horn sounded twice more, echoing its regal blare off the cement and metallic surfaces around the station. Inside Sarah’s womb the twins’ heartbeats accelerated in an instant, their tiny fingers searching through the amniotic fluid for each other. She felt her unborn children shift around in her belly and waited the moment out, her own palms pressed against her taut skin through the thin fabric of her smock.

“They’re moving again!” Sarah called to Sam Harris as he walked toward the Buick. “I can feel their little arms or hands poking me.”

“That’s great,” said Harris with a wide grin. “Gonna see the little fellas soon, aint we?”

As the car pulled out of the station, the two fetuses entangled, their heartbeats decelerated, lowering the blood pressure in their networks of developing veins and arteries. If a doctor had been present and had put a stethoscope against Sarah’s stomach, he would have heard only one heartbeat...dadum, dadum, dadum, dadum. With each tiny body sensing the heart beat of the other, their internal systems had aligned until two separate hearts beat in unison. A final honk didn’t affect the twins at all.

***

May 14, 1961 (Mother’s Day)

The next afternoon the entire Kennedy clan met at the compound in Hyannis Port, in honor of the matron, Rose Kennedy. Her husband, Joe, and all their grown kids – Eunice, Jean, Pat, Jack, Teddy, Bobby – their spouses and the ever-growing pack of grandchildren, were all in attendance. Rose especially enjoyed playing with the little grand kids, entering into their make-believe games, at the same time ordering the maids, cooks, doormen, chauffeurs about, keeping on top of the meal’s progress. “Just bringing the best restaurant right home for the family” is what she repeated to anyone who asked. It was her big show and she enjoyed every minute of it.

During a quiet moment, JFK had brought up the Freedom Riders plight to Bobby, and had watched as his brother’s jovial mood turn sour. Perhaps it was unfair to bring the business of government into the festivities, but the President was eager to get it off his mind. Bobby motioned for him to follow into the kitchen. There, back in the pantry, with his hands steadied on the counter, Bobby expressed his grave concerns.

“They’re out to make you look bad, damn it,” Bobby told his older brother. “That’s what I think. And the fucking FBI. I was assured that we had a man on the inside, but he didn’t warn me about any of this.” Jack Kennedy was taken aback. His face flushed redder by the second.

“What...what are you talking about? Some busses got stopped...burned, but...”

“Beat them with bats, pipes, bicycle chains for Christ sake...while the cops just sat on their butts!”

“In Anniston?”

“No, Birmingham!” Bobby said emphatically. “I Just got word about it an hour ago. All hell’s broken loose. Mainly Ku Klux Klan. When I asked what the fuck happened I was told that the police just showed up late and stood there. Watched people get hurt. Heard the FBI shot some footage. If we can get it that might help identify....”

“Son of a bitch!” interrupted Kennedy, thinking about how his wife was going to take the news. Her big-shot husband couldn’t even keep one lousy promise.

“I want a complete accounting of what the FBI knows...knew about this. If you had a man undercover then we should have been warned ahead of time. This is bullshit! I don’t care if you have to call out the whole fucking army. Stop it right now!”

Bobby immediately left his brother’s side, excusing himself as he passed through the front porch crowd, jogging quickly away from the house along the cobbled pathway, across the wide parking area over to his own house at the edge of the compound. When his brother said “now” he meant “NOW!”

Jack Kennedy stayed put in the back of the house, trying to cool down, regain his composure before returning to the party. Stuck there temporarily in the old pantry, he noticed a familiar blue and white china sugar bowl, a distant memory from his youth. He reached out, grabbed hold of a dainty handle and lifted. Underneath the crockery, pinned to the tablecloth, was a small, folded piece of yellow notebook paper. Happy to distract himself with a little mystery he placed the bowl back down, unpinned the note and opened it. In his mother’s antiquated scrawl it said, “To whom it may concern. Please deposit ten cents for each cup of coffee consumed henceforth in this kitchen. Thank you, Rose Kennedy.” There was no date.

Jack reflected on the preposterousness of it all. His mother, with all her millions, refused to provide her servants with free coffee. He lifted the lid of the old sugar bowl and peered inside. Just one thin dime lay in the bottom. Contemplating that single dime, then looking over at the pile of coffee mugs sitting in the nearby sink, he realized that his mother had made a completely unenforceable rule. She knew it, and all kitchen help and maids knew it too. But that one dime had kept the edict from blowing the household apart. Token compliance had kept the peace.

Walking back through the house, the President again joined the gaiety and chatter. When Bobby returned the President again excused himself, learning that a trusted aide, John Seigenthaler, had been dispatched to Birmingham to evaluate the injuries, take control for the Justice Department. At least they’d get the straight dope on what was happening, explained Bobby. Jack Kennedy patted his brother on the shoulder. “Thanks, Buster.”

Back at the table, as maids served the prime rib, Jack glanced approvingly at Bobby, then over to Teddy, who had been filled in about the mess. As soon as he made eye contact, Teddy jumped in with his usual mischievousness.

“Heard Southern League’s batting practices’ late this year,” Teddy declared, teasing his brothers, daring them to pounce. Bobby formed a fist and silently shook it at his younger brother, warning him to drop the subject. Jack quickly shot a glance at Jackie, then looked down at his plate. He sliced off a small piece of beef and placed it in his mouth.

“What’s that?” said Rose Kennedy, glancing up from her food.

“Nothing, Mother,” said Joe Kennedy, admonishing Teddy with a sharp stare. “Nothing at all.”

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(Chapter 13 next)