5432852385743

her own, either in impatience or outright disgust, and put her face down to Marina’s. The Leaning
Lamp of Pisa was turned on, and the light skated across the lenses of Marguerite’s cat’s-eye glasses.
“FIX HIM . . . WHAT HE’LL EAT! NO . . . SOURED . . . CREAM! NO . . . YOGRIT! HE’S . . .
TOO . . . SKINNY!”
“Skeeny,” Marina said doubtfully. Safe in her mother’s arms, June’s weeping was winding down to
watery hiccups.
“Yes!” Marguerite said. Then she whirled to Lee. “Fix that step!”
With that she left, only pausing to put a large smack on her granddaughter’s head. When she
walked back toward the bus stop, she was smiling. She looked younger.
8
On the morning after Marguerite brought the playhouse, I was up at six. I went to the drawn drapes
and peeked out through the crack without even thinking about it—spying on the house across the
street had become a habit. Marina was sitting in one of the lawn chairs, smoking a cigarette. She was
wearing pink rayon pajamas that were far too big for her. She had a new black eye, and there were
spots of blood on the pajama shirt. She smoked slowly, inhaling deeply and staring out at nothing.
After awhile she went back inside and made breakfast. Pretty soon Lee came out and ate it. He
didn’t look at her. He read a book.
9
That guy Gregory sent some coupons for the ShopRite, Lee had told his mother, perhaps to explain the meat
in the stew, maybe just to inform her that he and Marina weren’t alone and friendless in Fort Worth.
That appeared to have passed unnoticed by Mamochka, but it didn’t pass unnoticed by me. Peter
Gregory was the first link in the chain that would lead George de Mohrenschildt to Mercedes Street.
Like de Mohrenschildt, Gregory was a Russian expat in the petroleum biz. He was originally from
Siberia, and taught Russian one night a week at the Fort Worth Library. Lee discovered this and called
for an appointment to ask if he, Lee, could possibly get work as a translator. Gregory gave him a test
and found his Russian “passable.” What Gregory was really interested in—what all the expats were
interested in, Lee must have felt—was the former Marina Prusakova, a young girl from Minsk who
had somehow managed to escape the clutches of the Russian bear only to wind up in those of an
American boor.
Lee didn’t get the job; Gregory hired Marina instead—to give his son Paul Russian lessons. It was
money the Oswalds desperately needed. It was also something else for Lee to resent. She was tutoring a
rich kid twice a week while he was stuck putting together screen doors.
The morning I observed Marina smoking on the porch, Paul Gregory, good-looking and about
Marina’s age, pulled up in a brand-new Buick. He knocked, and Marina—wearing heavy makeup that
made me think of Bobbi Jill—opened the door. Either mindful of Lee’s possessiveness or because of
rules of propriety she had learned back home, she gave him his lesson on the porch. It lasted an hour
and a half. June lay between them on her blanket, and when she cried, the two of them took turns
holding her. It was a nice little scene, although Mr. Oswald would probably not have thought so.
Around noon, Paul’s father pulled up behind the Buick. There were two men and two women with
him. They brought groceries. The elder Gregory hugged his son, then kissed Marina on the cheek (the