BLACK PRESIDENT, CHAPTER 5. Do secret sons/daughters of JFK exist? (They'd be 60-years-old or younger now...) https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08NWCN6XG

JFK deals with the Cuban Missile crisis, while Sarah is wondering if JFK might just be the father of her upcoming child. (Book is FREE on KINDLE: <https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08NWCN6X>).

CHAPTER FIVE

On Sunday morning, 5:15 AM, the ringing of the secure phone woke President Kennedy up. A raspy voice at the other end informed him that the invasion of Cuba had begun. It was Secretary Rusk, who reiterated that the attacking forces badly needed air support. He implored the President to order US planes over the beaches. The losses were quickly mounting he added, explaining that the opposing Cuban forces were greater and better organized than had been previously estimated.

“NO! Tell them NO Navy jets, NO B-26 bombers!”

Kennedy was livid. He had debated the issue over the course of several days and now it was echoing again. Only when the generals had agreed on no air cover had he gone along with the plan. Now the Secretary was trying to allay that decision. The announcement by the Russians just four days before, that they had beat America in the race to launch a man into space, had been a bad PR blow. The President’s first thought regarding his lag-behind space program had been, We’ll catch those bastards up the road. But now he had to wonder if he’d been set up. News of a failing U.S. space program, coupled with a Cuban debacle, would sink him in the polls.

***

In honor of the child growing inside her, Sarah walked to a stationery store and bought a spiral bound writing pad. She’d decided to write down her thoughts on the world, including newspaper and magazine clippings she deemed pertinent to her child’s future. To cover herself in case President Kennedy did actually happen to be the father, she started clipping newspaper articles about him in particular, his life and activities, starting with pieces about the Bay of Pigs invasion. She figured her child could learn many things about being a Kennedy when he or she finally read the journal.

As Sarah’s pregnancy progressed, she thought more and more about the critical question of paternity. Whose offspring was she carrying, and what impact would that have on his or her life? If the child was her husband’s, Leon’s, then it would be a descendant of black men and women who survived life in a predominantly white world, first as slaves, then as second-class citizens. If it was a Kennedy descendant then it shared a bloodline with an American president, a white man from a wealthy family that had power and social prestige. She had heard about a slave named Sally who probably bore several children by President Thomas Jefferson, the descendants of whom were alive in present day. Perhaps sometime, far in the future, her child might receive notoriety like that. The world would pay some attention to the person he or she became.

Dropping by Ron’s gas station, Sarah peeked into the warm office. She spotted the regulars: Sam, Charles, Woofy, Dirkson...four older black men who used Leon’s station as white folks might use a senior citizen center in the suburbs.

“Hi, you all,” said Sarah, taking her usual seat near the back counter and shifting around a little to get comfortable. They all mumbled polite greetings. It was pretty obvious that each of the old timers had a crush on her. Their eyes twinkled as they basked in her freshness and youth. Their minds flashed back to those earlier days of drinking too much, making love with a lively young woman in the middle of the night. As they were recollecting their glory days, she broke the silence.

“Can someone talk about President Kennedy for my book?”

Sarah removed the notebook from her large purse and took a pen off the cash register counter. Suddenly everyone had clammed up. They simply watched as Sarah carefully wrote a headline on the first page, saying each word slowly out loud as she penned in the letters.

“Your...Daddy’s...friends...comment...on...President...Kennedy... April...19...1961.”

As soon as she heard a slight sound from old Sam, who was sitting near the front door, she entered his name on the first page, printing each of the letters...S...A...M... carefully at the margin, following it with his last name H...A...R...R...I...S. But Sam was just clearing his throat, and had no intention of saying anything in particular .

“No, honey,” said Sam, rubbing his neck. “Just trying to feel a mite better.” But Sarah didn’t want her book to begin with a smudge of erasure, and she held her head low, and bit her lip. Sam immediately noticed her shift in mood, as did everyone else in the small room, and all made an effort to cheer her up.

“Now don’t yuh be a crying, honey,” said Woofy, angling his thin face to catch a glimpse of her eyes. He always wore suits when he left the house, saying that an eighty-year habit was hard to break. But the other fellows knew that he was only seventy-eight and that he had worked as a laborer most of his life. He never needed a three- piece suit until it came time to feel respectable as a retired gentleman.

Now Woofy coaxed Harris with a stern look and said, “Sam’ll talk about whatever you want, won’t you Sam?”

———

(Chapter Six next)