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it. Then he slugged her. She fell down on the cracked sidewalk and covered her face when he bent over
her. “No, Lee, no! No more heet me!”
He didn’t hit her. He yanked her to her feet and shook her, instead. Her head snapped and rolled.
“You!” a rusty voice said from my left. It made me jump. “You, boy!”
It was an elderly woman on a walker. She was standing on her porch in a pink flannel nightgown
with a quilted jacket over it. Her graying hair stood straight up, making me think of Elsa Lanchester’s
twenty-thousand-volt home permanent in The Bride of Frankenstein.
“That man is beating on that woman! Go down there and put a stop to it!”
“No, ma’am,” I said. My voice was unsteady. I thought of adding I won’t come between a man and his
wife, but that would have been a lie. The truth was that I wouldn’t do anything that might disturb the
future.
“You coward,” she said.
Call the cops, I almost said, but bit it back just in time. If it wasn’t in the old lady’s head and I put
it there, that could also change the course of the future. Did the cops come? Ever? Al’s notebook
didn’t say. All I knew was that Oswald would never be jugged for spousal abuse. I suppose in that
time and that place, few men were.
He was dragging her up the front walk with one hand and yanking the stroller with the other. The
old woman gave me a final withering glance, then clumped back into her house. The other spectators
were doing the same. Show over.
From my living room, I trained my binoculars on the redbrick monstrosity catercorner from me.
Two hours later, just as I was about to give up the surveillance, Marina emerged with the small pink
suitcase in one hand and the blanket-wrapped baby in the other. She had changed the offending skirt
for slacks and what appeared to be two sweaters—the day had turned cold. She hurried down the
street, several times looking back over her shoulder for Lee. When I was sure he wasn’t going to follow
her, I did.
She went as far as Mister Car Wash four blocks down West Davis, and used the pay telephone
there. I sat across the street at the bus stop with a newspaper spread out in front of me. Twenty
minutes later, trusty old George Bouhe showed up. She spoke to him earnestly. He led her around to
the passenger side of the car and opened the door for her. She smiled and pecked him on the corner of
the mouth. I’m sure he treasured both. Then he got in behind the wheel and they drove away.
6
That night there was another argument in front of the Elsbeth Street house, and once again most of
the immediate neighborhood turned out to watch. Feeling there was safety in numbers, I joined them.
Someone—almost certainly Bouhe—had sent George and Jeanne de Mohrenschildt to get the rest
of Marina’s things. Bouhe probably figured they were the only ones who’d be able to get in without
physical restraints being imposed on Lee.
“Be damned if I’ll hand anything over!” Lee shouted, oblivious of the rapt neighbors taking in
every word. Cords stood out on his neck; his face was once more a bright, steaming red. How he must
have hated that tendency to blush like a little girl who’s been caught passing love-notes.
De Mohrenschildt took the reasonable approach. “Think, my friend. This way there’s still a chance.
If she sends the police . . .” He gave a shrug and lifted his hands to the sky.
“Give me an hour, then,” Lee said. He was showing teeth, but that expression was the farthest
thing in the world from a smile. “It’ll give me a chance to put a knife through ever one of her dresses
and break ever one of the toys those fatcats sent to buy my daughter.”