BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 16. Leon gets past obvious discrepancies, becomes 'color-blind' to his white/black (JFK) sons; John & Jackson Little.

Leon imagines a GRAND Opening @his garage--earning $ for twins John & Jackson. Birdie is losing her husband, Jolly. https://www.amazon.com/Black-President-Historical-Rick-Schmidt/dp/0955861314

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sarah tried not to act surprised by the distinct facial features of her twin sons, but it was evident that they had the Kennedy stamp. They had the long slim cheekbones, high brows, even the fine, brown hair. That fine hair, not the coarser, kinky type her father and husband had, was the final giveaway. Those Kennedy genes combined with hers had simply overpowered what was left of her Black blood.

“Hey, yuh all. Dis ’er youngster’s looking for his daddie,” said Bela as she carried two month old John Little into Leon’s bedroom for the daily visit. The other twin, Jackson, was still asleep in his crib.

Leon broke into a wide grin as the baby approached his bedside. Little eyelids were closed and the arms and legs were wrapped up inside a blanket. Although the child was quite light-colored, just like his mother, Leon still saw himself reflected in the child’s white- skinned features, was able to bond in spite of the obvious discrepancies. He somehow believed that the infant’s gentle features – small nose and thin lips, smooth skin – resembled his own mama and other distant relatives. He was proud of his wife. Two sons! He believed their luck was bound to change with the birth of the boys.

Bela enjoyed watching the big man dote on the infant, holding the little fellow against his chest, rocking him like an old granny would.

“Now which one...which twin has ah got here?” asked Leon, again, enjoying the novelty of the question.

“Thas’ one is John. Jackson’s still back n’dare wit his mammy. We just done drew straws since they look mighty close alike. Yuh see one yuh see’m all,” said Bela chuckling, enjoying the special humor of the moment.

“Sarah...she did good...real good,” said Leon, quite the proud papa.

“Yuh did some good work yuhself,” added Bela with a wink. Later that afternoon, before it got dark, Leon heard some light tapping sounds on the window of his small bedroom. Looking over he saw rain falling, little droplets turning the glass into a magnifier that pulled in patches of green from the nearby trees. The sound relaxed him, gave him a chance to contemplate the day. He appreciated that his wife had decided to sleep in another room of the house, since the strain of being repeatedly awakened all night, everyone agreed, wouldn’t have done his recovery any good.

How many months had he been bedridden? He counted it out: April, May, June, July, August. Around five months laid up. Too much time going by. Here he was, almost a cripple, and he had two more mouths to feed. What was happening at the garage? Was anybody bringing in money? Leon tried not to panic – there was nothing he could do until he got free of the bed. Money. That’s what he needed now. Lot’s of it. Money for babies.

Just before he dozed off he imagined a big neon sign in front of the station, announcing GRAND OPENING. In his mind’s eye he surveyed an extravaganza of newly renovated buildings and freshly- laid asphalt, imagined new paint on the walls, broken windows fixed, grease wiped away, a full staff of employees, starchy new uniforms (white, just like the nurse’s uniforms, with name tags sewn on the shirts), and so on. Even his old pals were dressed in their Sunday best. Instead of dead gas pumps surrounded by dead cars, the pumps were suddenly new and operational, clean advertisements with pretty orange and yellow paint announcing SPECIALS on regular and premium gas. The sun was shining and cars were backed up into the street – a long line of customers eagerly awaiting the pumps. They were handing over fistfuls of bills, fives, tens, twenties, into the attendant’s hands, his own shirt and pants pockets full of greenbacks.

***

Birdie was losing Jolly. His breathing had been ragged for over an hour. It sounded as if a child’s rattle had gotten itself lodged somewhere deep down in his throat. Birdie wanted to scream at the doctors. Operate, damn it! Cut into his throat and get that damn toy out before my husband dies! But she knew the term “death rattle” applied to his situation. Her mother had rattled her way to eternity, and so would her poor, sick, sweetheart of a husband. It was strange to have so much feeling still left for someone who hadn’t spoken a word in years, hadn’t ever really been conversational. But there it was, real emotion, tears in her eyes, worry on her brow, a breaking heart.

“There ain’t nuttin yuh can do when tha rattle goes, right?” She had to bother the doctor again, ask him to do something. It was hard trying to adjust to yet another tragedy in her life, one more heartache. She’d known people who’d undergone divorces, illness, arrests, beatings, accidents, car wrecks, drunken brawls, evictions, businesses failing, abortions, miscarriages, electricity shut off, food shortages, unaffordable coal, everything from foul weather and cold rooms to bad grades in school. She had heard it all, learned about every unfortunate event that happened to her extended family and friends, thousands over her seventy years. It had been a broken record. And now it was her turn to become a widow, just like many of her old women friends. Black men didn’t seem to last long, just couldn’t hold up to the stress of being treated like dogs in American society, thought Birdie. The drinking and lack of money had contributed a lot to making her Jolly’s life harder than it should have been.

Birdie’s mind clicked over to thoughts of Jolly in high school when they first met. He had been one of the more popular young men, handsome like her Kennedy boss; a slim-cheeked boy who seemed serious about his studies and playing the trumpet. He was a natural born musician, tooting out a blast of musical notes for the school band. It was a shame they didn’t let him keep the instrument after graduation, she thought, so he could have continued with his music. But with school over it had been time for him to earn a living, help his family survive with whatever paycheck he could rustle up.

When Birdie and Jolly got married, Jolly barely had time to make love to her before rushing off to his midnight shift as janitor in a large office complex. She remembered the tears she had shed...that her young husband had to work while other people slept. He kept reminding her that he was “lucky,” that his job was the best of anybody’s he knew. That had made her cry twice, for herself and all the other unfortunates she knew.

On the other hand, her sales job at a nearby five-and-ten-cent- store was much easier physically than Jolly’s, with regular daytime hours. But the money she brought in was half as much as his. Her $.50 per hour to his $1.00. If they hadn’t lived in a room at her parents’ house in those early years there wouldn’t have been any money for food and such essentials each month.

“It could be hours,” said the doctor, interrupting Birdie’s reverie. “We don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“What’s that? Oh...I know. I expected jus’ ta sleep here in this ol’ chair like as usual, just stay put until...until my ol Jolly moves on.”

“Well, maybe we can find a vacant room around here, get you a bed. His breath will be uneven like this. I’ve seen it develop over the last several days. I’m sure that the Kennedy’s...they don’t expect you to work during this time...of.... ”

Everyone knew Birdie worked in the White House. That’s where the special considerations came from. Was she hungry? Was she tired? Uncomfortable? Everyone was concerned that the Kennedys would hear that she’d been mistreated in some way during Jolly’s death, and get them reprimanded or possibly even fired from the Hospital staff. Doctors afraid of old Birdie. she thought. It was a strange feeling to have that power. If only she had the power over life and death. She would wave her magic wand and her husband would automatically open up his eyes, suddenly notice her, smile that big white-teeth smile that had electrified her as a teenager. Then he would wrap his big, strong arms around her, press his lips against hers, love her again, make her feel secure.

“Yes. Mrs. Kennedy knows I’ll be here til it’s over. She done found a fill-in for me...for a few days. A maid from the kitchen who da kids knows and likes. Mrs. Kennedy...she be a good woman ta work fo.”

“Yes, I’m sure she is,” said the doctor as he took the stethoscope dangling from around his neck and performed a perfunctory check of Jolly’s breath and heart beat. Birdie settled into her chair for the long night ahead.

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(Chapter 17 Next)