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play before the curtain goes up on the last act, I thought. I went in to eat my meal, but although the ribs
were tangy and tender, I ended up throwing most of them away.
18
I tried to sleep in the main bedroom, but in there the ghosts of Lee and Marina were too lively.
Shortly before midnight, I relocated to the smaller bedroom. Rosette Templeton’s Crayola girls were
still on the walls, and I somehow found their identical jumpers (Forest Green must have been
Rosette’s favorite crayon) and big black shoes comforting. I thought those girls would make Sadie
smile, especially the one wearing the Miss America crown.
“I love you, honey,” I said, and fell asleep.
19
11/21/63 (Thursday)
I didn’t want breakfast any more than I’d wanted dinner the night before, but by 11:00 A.M. I
needed coffee desperately. A gallon or so seemed about right. I grabbed one of my new paperbacks
—Slam the Big Door, it was called—and drove to the Happy Egg on Braddock Highway. The TV
behind the counter was on, and I watched a news story about Kennedy’s impending arrival in San
Antonio, where he was to be greeted by Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson. Also to join the party:
Governor John Connally and his wife, Nellie.
Over footage of Kennedy and his wife walking across the tarmac of Andrews Air Force base in
Washington, heading for the blue-and-white presidential plane, a correspondent who sounded like she
might soon pee in her underwear talked about Jackie’s new “soft” hairdo, set off by a “jaunty black
beret,” and the smooth lines of her “belted two-piece shirt-dress, by her favorite designer, Oleg
Cassini.” Cassini might indeed be her favorite designer, but I knew Mrs. Kennedy had another outfit
packed away on the plane. The designer of that one was Coco Chanel. It was pink wool, accessorized by
a black collar. And of course there was a pink pillbox hat to top it off. The suit would go well with the
roses she’d be handed at Love Field, not so well with the blood which would splatter the skirt and her
stockings and shoes.
20
I went back to Mercedes Street and read my paperbacks. I waited for the obdurate past to swat me like
a troublesome fly—for the roof to fall in or a sinkhole to open and drop 2703 deep into the ground. I
cleaned my .38, loaded it, then unloaded it and cleaned it again. I almost hoped I would disappear
into one of my sudden sleeps—it would at least pass the time—but that didn’t happen. The minutes
dragged by, turning reluctantly into a stack of hours, each one bringing Kennedy that much closer to
the intersection of Houston and Elm.
No sudden sleeps today, I thought. That will happen tomorrow. When the critical moment comes, I’ll just
drop into unconsciousness. The next time I open my eyes, the deed will have been done and the past will have
protected itself.
It could happen. I knew it could. If it did, I’d have a decision to make: find Sadie and marry her, or