by Chris Fraser
“I’ll get into that next; let me get this part out of the way first. There is a method to my madness. I assure you.”
“Okay, now if I may ask, before you return to the story, what was your plan to destroy Joe Sr.? What were you going to do?”
“That’s easy, son, I was going to hit him where it would hurt the most. I was going to destroy his legacy.”
“And how were you gonna do that?”
Preston lay back down, looked away, and said with quiet calm, “Have you ever heard the phrase that a revolution eats its children?”
“Yeah, I have. I think it came about during the French Revolution or something.”
“You may be right; well, this was my revolt against the Kennedys.”
* * * * *
“I left the air base with only two things: my beloved rifle and fifty pounds of Torpex explosive. There was tons of it left over from scratched missions. I figured I could find a use for it eventually and it would never be missed. I hid it in the closet of the room I had at Phillip’s. Now…a little bit about Phillip. He had to leave Oxford and was clerking at a law office, and he had a shitty little flat in the wrong part of town.
“Now, remember when I told you that the Kennedy brothers would beat up on Phillip and he’d just lay down and take the beating? Well, that’s what he did after everything was taken from us—he just resigned himself to his fate. Don’t get me wrong, he was deeply saddened and very angry like I was, he just had a different way of dealing with it, a classic pacifist I guess. He was my older brother and I loved him, but I couldn’t respect him for his passivity, and our relationship was strained once he found out what I had done and what I had planned.
“I couldn’t be bothered with Phillip’s apathy and inadequacies. I was focused on what I had to do. Hate and anger became my new parents. I wasn’t going to leave England without another Kennedy under my belt, even though they had all gone back to the states…except one.
“Kathleen Kennedy was known as Kick. She was the prettiest and therefore the cruelest of all the Kennedy girls, and although I’d planned on leaving the women off my list, I saw the opportunity and I had to take it. She had married some Duke, but he was killed in the war. And of course, before old Dukey was barely in the ground, the heartless bitch became the mistress of Earl Peter Wentworth-FitzWilliam. The little tart wouldn’t settle for anything less than royalty.
“I kept track of Kick’s comings and goings and decided my best chance was another airplane mishap; that’s where my experience was. Kick and Earl FitzWilliam always used Croydon Airport in London when they would traipse around Europe. It wasn’t too hard to get a job as a baggage handler with my experience, and then I’d just wait for the right moment. The Earl’s plane, the De Havilland Dove, would be flying out of Croydon Airport on the thirteenth of May, 1948. I chose this flight because Kick and the Earl were flying to Paris to meet Joe Sr. himself. The light transport monoplane had a pilot, a co-pilot, Earl FitzWilliam, and Kick on board. It also had thirty-five pounds of Torpex waiting to rip the plane in half. I placed their luggage in the baggage compartment along with the explosives—set to go off in an hour, as I knew it would be a short flight to France. During the war I was taught to make electromechanical time bombs using a watch, a battery, and a detonator—just punch a small nail into the face of the watch where you want it to go off. When the time comes, contact with the nail closes the circuit between the axis of the clock and the nail, thus connecting the battery and sparking the detonator. Simple really.
“There must have been a malfunction with the bomb as I later learned that they landed safely in Cannes, had lunch, shopped, did some other hoity-toity shit, and a few hours later got back on the plane. Rumor is that the pilot, Peter Townshend, didn’t want to fly as there were thunderstorms in the area, but the Earl talked him into it, lucky for me, I guess. They took off from Cannes headed for Paris. About an hour into the flight, the Torpex finally ignited, blasting the Dove into pieces over the Ardèche Mountains. All four were killed instantly. But unlike the Joe Jr. incident, all four bodies were found and Joe Sr. was the one who had to identify his daughter. Once I heard the news, I apologized and said a prayer for the ancillary deaths that occurred. The collateral damage was always the hardest part, merely innocent parties in the wrong place at the wrong time. But what can you do?
“To tell you the truth, I don’t think her family was too upset by her death. Joe was the only one who came to her funeral in England. And that was only because he was in the area and someone from the family had to be a representative. You see, Kick Kennedy did something so inexcusable, so unacceptable, that she was ostracized from her family. She had the nerve to marry a Protestant, and the deeply Catholic Kennedys wouldn’t stand for it. Rose was overheard saying, ‘The airplane crash was God pointing a finger and saying no.’ Now, that tells you all you need to know about that messed up family.”
* * * * *
I stopped him. “Taking out a woman. I don’t know, man, that’s not too cool.”
Big mistake. If Preston wasn’t strapped to the bed with tubes and wires, he would have lunged for me.
“Are you fucking judging me, son?”
“No, not all…” I tried to say.
“You are not here to judge. You are not here to have opinions on what I’ve done and not done. You are here to observe and report, that’s it!”
“You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.”
“Listen, I don’t regret what I’ve done for a second, and if you were in my position and had any stones, you would have done the same thing!”
“Maybe I would.”
“And don’t be patronizing me—that’s the one thing I hate more than being judged!”
I stood up. I had to leave the room. “Look Preston, I can’t get anything right with you right now, you’re pissed off, I’m gonna go outside for a smoke.”
“You’re goddamn right I’m pissed off! Get out of my sight!” he shouted as I left the room.
14
When I stepped out of the bright hospital lobby into an even brighter midday sun, I knew I needed a drink. The hospital was near downtown, so I figured I could walk to the square and find a bar. Walking in the heat and humidity, trying to sweat out my raging hangover, I realized that this was the second time Preston had lost his cool and snapped at me. The first time was in his office when he thought I was disparaging southerners. This guy didn’t even know me—I’d been here less than a week and he was already going off on me. I might have made a mistake coming here. Either he was crazy and he was making this whole story up for his amusement, or he was a mass murderer responsible for some of the most notorious deaths of the last fifty years. Either way, I knew I was in over my head. But I couldn’t go home, and didn’t want to—other than Preston’s eccentricities, I liked it here. I had a great place to live, had been treated very well, hadn’t had to spend a dime, and the people were decent; even Preston, most of the time. But the real reason I wasn’t going anywhere was Corynne.
I made it to the square and had my pick of bars—it was a college town. I chose the one that reminded me the most of the Grotto. It was small compared to the rest of the bars in the area, maybe about two thousand square feet, and it had a dive quality that sat right with me. Johnny Rebs was a clean place with a woody-red interior—its standout feature was a long, glossy mahogany bar. There were a couple pool tables and a few high round tables, nothing more. It was very similar to the Grotto, and that just goes to show you, no matter where you go in this country, despite a few minor differences and regional predilections, everything is basically the same. This bar was no different: from the neon-lit beer signs to the juke box that played the same songs. The only thing that set this one apart from the Grotto was it had Ole Miss regalia everywhere, compared to the panoply of allegiances the Grotto had. Southern California had no football team and Orange County couldn’t even claim a college team of our own, so instead of one allegiance, we had them all. Everyone came
from somewhere else back home. Just go to an Angels’ game, there are more fans for the opposing team than the Angels.
I sat down on a well-worn red-vinyl bar stool—I always sat at the bar, never the tables. The bartender, an attractive forty-something, asked me what I wanted in a sexy twang.
“Give me a Miller Lite.”
“Very funny…what do you want?”
“A Miller Lite,” I said again.
She stopped, rested her hands on the bar, and pointed to a sign on the wall behind her. “Now you must be from out of town.”
I read the offensive sign: Mississippi Blue Law, Alcohol Not Permitted on Sundays. “Are you serious, you can’t give me a beer right now?”
“Do you need to read the sign again?” she answered.
“Jesus Christ, where the hell am I?”
“Look boy, you watch using the Lord’s name like that. I’ll throw you out of here faster than you can spit.”
Still severely dehydrated, I ordered a coke.
I had plenty of time to kill and was working on my third coke when a fat sweaty hand slammed a pint of Jack Daniels in front of me.
“Hurry up and pour while she’s in the back,” said the familiar voice. I turned and it was Duane. He sat down next to me and the padded vinyl stool pushed out a loud breath of air, reacting to the weight. “Hey, man, I’m sorry I popped you the other day, things got out of hand,” he said with what looked like contrition.
I read his face and saw no sarcasm or hostility and said, trying to sound tough, “No sweat, man, barely felt it.”
“Yeah, bullshit, you went down like a sack of corn.”
“Cheap shot,” I answered.
“Name’s Duane, good to know ya.”
“I’m Trent.”
“Your shiner is almost gone I see, no harm no foul.” He stuck out his meaty paw and I shook it. “Well, like I said, I’m sorry. Trigger was my best friend and this whole thing tries my patience.”
I saw my chance to get some information. “What is the story with Trigger? The storyline at the Walker’s is he just up and walked out on Corynne and the baby.”
He slid the pint toward me; I took it and poured almost half into my coke. “Trigger was the All-American quarterback at Oxford High and was on the freshman team at Ole Miss before he disappeared. I was his left tackle and grew up with him, he wasn’t like the typical cocky stud QB. He was good, but he didn’t act like it. He was the most down-to-earth guy I ever met. He’d give you the shirt off his back, and frankly, I miss him.”
He poured the rest of the whiskey into his drink, then winked and patted his pocket, indicating he had another pint.
“Once Trigger laid eyes on that sweet little honey Corynne, he was toast, and hell, you can’t blame him. And when he found out he had knocked her up, he quit football, got a job bartending, and moved in with Corynne over at the Walker place to save money.” He took a big drink straight from the pint and grimaced from the burn. “I met up with him at the place he was tending bar, and he told me everything with Corynne was great and they were excited about the baby. But after a few drinks he also confided that living at the place was creepy and thought it might be better if he and Corynne found their own place.”
“Yeah, that old place can be a little creepy,” I said.
“It wasn’t just the house; he said he couldn’t handle the smell.”
“Yeah, I know that smell.”
“Trigger told me that Preston was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nice one moment then furious the next, said he had a hell of a temper.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the temper too.”
“And that Matador guy, he didn’t know what his story was. He didn’t see him much, said he was always out in the fields. If you ask me I think they’re a couple queers.”
I ignored his redneck theory, knocked back my whiskey, and said, “What fields?”
“You don’t know about the fields? Where do you think that smell is coming from?”
“I don’t know, I’m asking you?”
“The marijuana fields they got out behind the house. Trigger said they got about four acres filled with rows and rows of the best shit in the area.”
He pulled out a baggy and held it up to the light. “You see them purple and orange buds, that’s good shit,” and then he quickly put it back in his pocket.
How could I have missed it? I thought. That smell, that pungent smell—it was marijuana! But it didn’t smell like any of the stuff I’d ever come across. It could be best described as a mix of potent marijuana and shit. I asked to be sure, “They’re growing weed back there?”
“Hell yeah, man, been supplying the college kids for years, and not just them—I’ve been a loyal customer since I was sixteen. Those guys are underground legends in these parts; rumor is they got the sheriff in their back pocket so they got free reign around here.”
Duane pushed himself off his bar stool and stood up. I couldn’t help but notice how much bigger he was than me. He downed what was left of his whiskey and said, “Anyways, I just thought I’d apologize. Believe it or not, I felt kind of bad about what happened, and it ain’t like me to feel bad about nothing, ain’t in my nature.”
“Well, I gotta get back to my boys.” He motioned to a table behind us where the two inbreds he was with the other day were sitting, dressed in the same overalls with the same shit-eating smirks on their faces. Then one of them flipped me off. “I don’t think they care much for you,” he said.
“No shit.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, they don’t care for most people, and most people don‘t care too much for them.”
“You can tell them the feeling’s mutual.”
“How about I tell them nothing,” he said, then discreetly handed me what was left of the second pint of whiskey.
I thanked him and we shook hands, and I was once again alone at the bar. I sat there for a few more hours, getting a little buzzed from Duane’s contraband whiskey, then called Matador and told him where I’d be and he picked me up after he got Preston discharged from the hospital. It was a silent, awkward ride home.
15
I knew I’d have the day to myself. Preston was wiped out from the hospital drugs, and with Corynne at school, I decided it might be a good day to do a little snooping around. I went looking for Matador and couldn’t find him anywhere on the grounds, and then I asked Delotta, who was watching little Tucker, where I could find him.
She was reading a book to Tucker and put him down, then said sharply, “No I don’t. He’s probably out working and he don’t like to be bothered when he’s working. And don’t you be disturbing him none either; he’s a very private man when he wants to be.”
“Damn, Delotta, don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” I said.
“I’m sorry, Trent, it’s just this whole hospital business has got me all out of sorts. Preston’s illness has really got me down. I love that man; he ain’t been nothing but good to me and my family. Did you know that he’s paying for Darnell’s schooling? There’s no way I could afford the tuition on my own. And when Darnell graduates he’s gonna be the first Carter to finish college. And I just know my boy is gonna go on and do great things. I just know it. And I owe it to Preston.”
“Preston’s gonna be just fine,” I said, lying.
“I sure hope so. I don’t know what would happen to this place if he passed on.” Then she grabbed my arms, sat me down in her chair, and handed me Tucker and the book and told me to finish the story. I did.
That afternoon, I went looking for Matador despite Delotta’s warning. My plan was simple—follow the smell. I started across the great back lawn, past the grandstand where we had had Audrey’s wake, then maneuvered my way through two hundred yards of thickly lined oaks until I saw a sunlit clearing up ahead past the trees. Razor-sharp barbed wire stopped me, tearing through the flesh of my thigh—I was careful not to make a sound, although it hurt like hell. Bloody and a little discouraged, I continued on,
following the barbed wire fence until I found a spot with enough space for me to crawl through. Once through, I came upon another cluster of trees, and just past that, I saw it—there it was, just as Duane described it. I stood before a large open area with rows and rows of marijuana about chest high and in full bloom. I walked through the maze of plants, each one hanging with those same stinky purple and orange hairy buds. I’m no expert, but this was good shit.
I walked through the blooming splendor until I came upon a separate field, but these plants were all dying—lilted and brown, some black with the delicious buds fallen to the ground like over-ripened fruit that fell off the tree to rot. These plants were a mess and the smell here was almost unbearable. I pulled my shirt over my face and turned to get away from the rotting plants when suddenly, I found a shotgun barrel pointed right at me—Matador was holding the gun.
“What the fuck you doing out here, Trent?” Matador said with a vicious calm.
“Easy, Matador…easy, please, put the gun down,” I said, about ready to piss myself.
Matador slowly put the gun down and said, “You weren’t supposed to see this yet. Well, you’ve seen it now, what do you think?”
My first thought was to allay any worry he may have of me telling anyone about this. “Look Matador, my roommate back home grew plants in our house and had a little business of his own. You don’t have to worry about me with this.”
“I know I don’t, that’s one of the reasons Preston chose you.”
“What, chose me?”
“So what do you think? Pretty impressive, huh?” he asked, changing the subject. I was still too scared to notice or care.
“Uh…the quality looks amazing. How’d you get such good shit to grow outside?” I asked, knowing that usually the best plants are grown indoors with hydroponics.
“Shit,” he replied bluntly.
“Shit?”
“Yeah shit, you know, feces, dung, it has many names,” he said with a smile.