BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 66.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

For two weeks after the “Kennedy bloodline” speech, there wasn’t a magazine or newspaper in any country in the world that didn’t carry the story. In almost all cases, a set of comparison photos – President Little’s profile next to JFK’s – accompanied the text. The more the worldwide readership reviewed he images, the more they saw an undeniable resemblance. Two Kennedys were there. The “seeing is believing” evidence spelled it out. President Little and his brother were, without a doubt, Jack Kennedy's sons.

Of course the most affected audience of the historic news was the Kennedy clan itself. Caroline Kennedy had exclaimed to her husband, “My God, we did get a Kennedy into the Whitehouse after all!” She had remembered all the newspaper coverage at the time she had stepped down, how the media had bemoaned the loss of Kennedy glitter and ascendancy, her being replaced with a common Black man. Weren’t they ever wrong! The other Kennedys, including Bobby’s grown, middle-aged kids, cousins and grandkids, those who had felt the loss when Caroline gave up the Presidency, were now cheering the good news. A Black Kennedy was still Kennedy in their book, and they took the news as a positive stroke of providence. Many Kennedy offspring felt the happiness wash over them, as the Little brothers pulled their clan back into the spotlight.

But just as the forces of good and philanthropy were activated by the revelation, their underworld counterparts were also revived. Especially upset were the men who had paid good money to discourage Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg from a position of power. They had paid hit man Jack Sturgis to remove her – remove a Kennedy – only to learn now that all efforts had been in vain. They had somehow been trumped back in 2012. In spite of all their efforts, there was still a Kennedy in the White house – in fact two – currently occupying seats of power. And it was already clear that President Little-Kennedy opposed their economic and military policies. His liberal approach would ultimately cost them more financial losses than they could ever have anticipated under his sister’s presidency. So again, this secret band of military industrialists vowed to remove these Kennedys from power, by any means necessary.

Back at the White House, the very atmosphere of the halls and walkways had been transformed. Secret Service personnel along with various staff members now regarded President Little with a new degree of awe and respect. He carried with him the embodiment of the golden age of Camelot, a hot human ember still glowing from the JFK era. The thugs – assassins – who had wished to extinguish the Kennedy legacy had failed. Here was a living descendant of President Kennedy, endowed with the intellectual power and playful human nature of the man himself. Articles appeared in The New York Times heralding a new “Black Camelot.” Linguistic experts compared President Little’s speeches, past and present, with those of JFK. Suddenly it all made sense. Suddenly people could understand his charisma. Many wondered why they hadn’t seen the man’s – and his brother’s – greatness before.

After playing with his children and putting them to bed, Jackson started watching a movie, with him and Cissy snuggling after making love. When the phone rang around 10:30 PM he put the DVD on hold, as Cissy grabbed it off the antique bedside table.

“Hello. First Lady here,” said Cissy, having some fun with her mother in law, who's number she recognized on the touch-screen.

“Hi honey,” said Sarah in a tired voice. “Just wanted to check in with my darling boy.”

“Hi Mom. He's right here.” Cissy handed the phone over to her husband. For security purposes, the bedroom’s White House phone was not a cell, but a ruggedly constructed countertop model. Jackson climbed his way up almost onto Cissy's lap to grab the call, both of them laughing at the flimsy excuse he had for making physical contact. Sarah could hear the laughter in the distance.

“Mr. Pres. here,” said Jackson, giving his mother the extra fun of reinforcing that, indeed, her son had made it to the highest office in the land.

“How's your evening going, Mom?”

“Oh you know, my rickety ol’ body's misbehaving some...but watching a little TV...mostly the old movies. Just miss you, you know, wanting to hear your sweet voice. Always get myself lonesome when I’m working on my journals. There's so much to paste in now, with you being President and all. My ol’ arms get tired!”
“Now don’t overwork all that cutting and pasting just cus I’m in this big old white house. But sure am glad for your scrapbooks. My kids will have some fun someday, with all those clipping and your pretty writing in ’em.”

Giving a short pause, Jackson asked, “And how’s Rudy?”

“Oh, pretty good. Sometimes his missing leg gives him some trouble, but we both know it was that injury that brought us together, so got to be thankful.”

“Don’t think I know what you mean,” said Jackson, nuzzling up closer to Cissy’s breasts with his cheek as she gave him a scolding look.

“Oh, when Rudy first showed up I had to give him a ride home after seeing how high the snowdrifts were outside our Chicago apartment. You may not remember. Anyway, couldn’t let a guy with a plastic leg try to walk home in all that mess. So we cozied up in the car and the rest you know. Anyway, he’s made me mighty happy.”

Hearing his mother’s story reminded Jackson of how he’d met his mate-for-life, that day back in law class when he’d given his recitation on the Amendments. Afterwards, a beautiful blond named ‘Cissy’ had approached him.

“Yes, sometimes I have to wonder how much of our lives are ruled by the fates. Saw an old movie a long time ago – maybe when we lived in Chicago – where the gods up in heaven were standing around a big wishing well and saw us humans in the reflections. As they watched us at work and play, they decided what new tasks to put us through. With Cissy and the kids here in this rent-free apartment (Sarah heard a distant laugh from the First Lady) I’m feeling pretty good tonight.”

“Well, you young people take care now. Have a good night. I love you all so much, you know.”

“Love you too, Mom. Good night, and give our best to Rudy. See you soon. Bye.”

It was with a strange sadness that Sarah Little hung up the phone. There was her son, Jackson, all grown up and living a completely different life from her own. Of course, that was the way it was supposed to be, as time moved on and one’s kids formed a life for themselves. Brother John was also there in Washington DC, doing his Attorney General job, but no one had answered at his house when she’d called earlier.

With Rudy asleep beside her, Sarah got up and went into the living room, clicking on the cable TV to see what was on. Catching part of the movie, Seconds, didn't help her mood, but it had sucked her in just the same. There was Rock Hudson, painting on a canvas with ocean waves off Malibu crashing in the distance, seen through a big picture window. After extensive plastic-surgery, he was suddenly living the Life of Riley, having been given a completely new identity. But she had seen the film before and knew that soon he’d be strapped to a gurney, rolling down a hospital corridor with a cork in his mouth, his silent screams doing nothing to stop his termination, next in line as a transplant for someone else. That’s what happened, if you complained too much!

That old movie was a good lesson, thought Sarah, a good reminder (though totally hyped) of why complaining didn’t work very well. She had read a book that said that when someone complained it meant that they believed they deserved a better life than the one they had. The book explained that a complaint was a type of slight to God. As if to say that what was granted from on-high wasn’t sufficient. Didn't God know what was best? Well, did he/she?

It took until 2:00 AM before Sarah was finally tired enough to try her pillow again.———