by Chris Fraser
“Plus, I don’t think anyone’s dressed like that since 1977.”
“Maybe you guys could play them for me sometime.”
“Anytime.”
“Well all right,” he said, then changed the subject. “Now, with Jay coming out it should be a real nice fit, and I understand he’s bringing his old lady out here?”
“Yeah, Dayla’s great, you’ll like her.”
“It never hurts to have pretty young women around does it? It’ll be good for Corynne to have another gal to pal around with.”
“Yeah it should work out fine,” I said, sliding the recorder to the center of the table.
He got the hint. “All right now, where were we?”
“Audrey’s death and Kick Kennedy,” I said, darkening the room.
“Thanks for reminding me.”
I lit up a smoke.
* * * * *
“You know how Josef Goebbels was Hitler’s minister of propaganda? Well another tyrant had one as well. My father was, at this point, Ambassador Joe’s right hand man. This mainly consisted of running the show behind the show; making everything Joe did look clean and professional. But the job was killing him—long hours, endless travel, and dealing with Joe’s moods was never fun. He basically became his whipping boy, and my father took it for the sake of his family, mainly his wife. Amongst his many duties, Father was PR man and speechwriter as writing was not Joe’s strong suit and my father had a knack for it. But more importantly, he could be trusted above all else to be Joe’s mouthpiece. His job was to make Ambassador Joe Kennedy look good, and that was a tall order.
“As you can imagine, Audrey’s death left us all devastated, but no one took it harder than my father; he was a broken man. Audrey was the light of his life—his beautiful baby girl, and now she was gone, and Joe Sr. was to blame. My father became consumed with despair, then revenge. After her death, other than for her funeral, he didn’t get out of bed for a week. We didn’t know what was going on in his head, we were worried about him. What we didn’t know was that he was plotting away, coming up with different methods to destroy his boss. The obvious wouldn’t work, any random act of violence would only turn either Joe or his family into martyrs, thus making the public embrace them even more. No, he needed Joe to destroy his own career, to become a villain in the public eye. He wanted Joe to throw away everything he’d worked for, everything he had planned for his great family—his great legacy. Finally he had it; he found a way for Joe to shoot himself in the foot, to destroy himself.
“When Audrey died, under my father’s orders, we were told not to let the Kennedys or anyone else know that we knew the truth behind her death. And Joe wasn’t about to stand up and admit responsibility. It went down as an unfortunate death of a girl who caused her own demise through loose morals. She became a cautionary tale parents tell their little girls while tucking them into bed. ‘You see? You see what happens if you’re not a good girl?’
“After a few weeks of grieving, my father went back to work; receiving the requisite pity from the staff and an unusual amount of compassion and support from Joe. Father took it all in, biding his time.
“It wasn’t a secret to anyone close to Joe that he was…to put it politically correct, an anti-Semite. Truthfully, he hated Jews. When referring to Kristallnacht, he said, ‘Well, they brought it on themselves.’ He wasn’t bothered by the fact that Germany was doing away with their Jews. He just wanted it done in a quieter fashion. Joe was more concerned with the bad publicity the Nazi regime would get in the west. He was wary of the ‘Jew Media rousing the Americans into war with their overblown accounts of Nazi aggression towards the elimination of the Jew problem.’
“In Britain, rather than siding with the popular Churchill, who would never compromise with the Nazis, Joe aligned with Neville Chamberlain in his search for an appeasement between the two countries. The fact that by 1940 the Luftwaffe bombed Britain on a daily basis wasn’t enough to push for war. Joe attempted to meet with Hitler numerous times ‘To bring a better understanding between the U.S. and Germany.’ Before the Americans entered the war, Joe was strongly against giving aid to the British, which, as you could imagine, made him very unpopular in his host country. It was Joe’s unpopular leanings and his obstinacy that would be his downfall. He was so arrogant that he thought he was above reproach. My father had found his vehicle for Joe’s destruction.
“Joe had his opinions but, when it came time for public speeches and on-the-record interviews, they were never brought to light thanks to my father, who either wrote, censored, or coached Joe’s vanilla speeches and canned remarks. It was time to take the leash off.
“The interview was with the Boston Globe during the German Blitzkrieg of London. My father advised Joe that it might be a good time to go on the record with his true feeling regarding the war. He told Joe that he was right. The bombings wouldn’t stop until England surrendered, and England’s only chance for salvation would be to reach an accord with Hitler. It wasn’t about saving democracy from the Nazis; it was about saving their British ass. And the U.S. should see the writing on the wall, or they’d be next.
“My father prepared a statement and coached him on some answers. Now was the time to side with the Nazis. Their defeat of Europe was imminent, and if Joe put that on the record now, he would come out smelling like a rose. He’d be a visionary politician, possibly even a president who could lead America into a future with a Nazi-controlled Europe. Joe was hesitant, but just arrogant enough to believe it would work. And you have to remember, during the Blitzkrieg and the early part of the war before the U.S. joined in, an Ally victory seemed far off.
“The plan was brilliant in its simplicity. Just let Joe be Joe, and he’d hang himself. He just needed the go-ahead from his most trusted advisor that now was the time to announce his private thoughts and make them public. Joe was finally right, and the world needed to know it.
“The journalist from the Globe started with the obvious question: ‘What is it like to live in war-torn England amid all the bombings, and should the U.S expand their role in the war?’
“Joe answered, ‘It's all a question of what we do with the next six months. The whole reason for aiding England is to give us time. As long as she is in there, we have time to prepare. It isn't that Britain is fighting for democracy; that's bunk. She's fighting for self-preservation, just as we will if it comes to us... I know more about the European situation than anybody else, and it's up to me to see that the country gets it.’
“The journalists couldn’t believe what they were getting. The Ambassador to England stating that England wasn’t fighting for democracy but only self-preservation, and the U.S. would be next.
“It was Joe’s next statement that finished him off. Feeling emboldened by finally stating his true feelings, he topped it off with, ‘Democracy is finished in England. It may be in America as well.’
“With that, my father knew Joe was finished. The reporters knew he was finished. The only one in the room who didn’t realize he had just committed political suicide was Joe himself. The reporters ended the interview immediately; they had a story to get out. And when Joe looked around for his right-hand man for support, he was nowhere to be found.
“The public outcry was swift and loud. When the Americans and the British read Joe’s quotes that democracy was finished and the whole war effort was bunk, they wanted Joe’s head. And they got it, within a month President Roosevelt asked for his resignation and Joe could do nothing but acquiesce. It was over: the presidential ambitions gone, the Kennedy name mud. He couldn’t even get elected mayor. His career and his name had been destroyed, and according to Joe, it was all Dixon Walker’s doing.
“The confrontation took place a week later. Joe was cleaning out his office. He cornered my father, who was doing the same, and asked if it was a deliberate sabotage. My father told him it was retaliation for Audrey’s death. He told him he knew it was Joe’s doing and this was payback. Joe’s punch landed squ
arely on his jaw. That’s when my father lost it and began to pummel Joe within an inch of his life; if it weren’t for some staffers who broke it up, he might have killed him. Joe staggered to his feet, cursing the day he met him. He made it to his still-cluttered desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a stack of papers. There might have been thirty or so letters written in cursive on colorful stationary.
“Joe threw them in my father’s direction and said, ‘Here, read these. That bitch was one hell of a screw, although her blowjobs could use some work.’
“My father collected the letters and began to read as his life became meaningless.
“Father somehow made the drive home in his ‘39 Duesenberg Coupe. All traffic laws were ignored, stop lights were an afterthought. Nothing mattered anymore. His world was shattered; the stack of papers strewn on the passenger seat mocking him only affirmed this. He pulled the car onto the front lawn, left the car door and the front door wide open, and ran upstairs. He was sure to find Mother at her vanity, applying her makeup at this time of day. I came out of my room to greet him, but he walked zombie-like past me through the halls and into the bedroom.
“I heard the whole thing from just outside their bedroom.
“‘Dixon, you’re home early.’ Mom said. ‘Dix, honey, are you okay?’”
“He nonchalantly placed the stack of letters on her vanity table and walked into the closet.
“First shock, then denial: ‘Dixon, I can explain. Dixon?’”
“All I heard was him opening the safe. ‘Don’t bother,’ he said from the closet. He calmly moved toward her, then sat down at the edge of the bed, placed the .38 Special in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
“Hearing the gunshot and then my mother’s screams, I rushed into the room and found my father’s body, with his head blown off, lying on the bed. My mother was screaming hysterically—his blood all over her face, dripping down her night gown. I noticed the letters strewn about the room and picked one up, reading around the blood splatters. I dropped the letter, then yelled with vile anger, ‘Mother, what did you do?’”
* * * * *
“Jesus Christ,” was the only response I could come up with. The tears clouded his eyes, but his stiff upper lip wouldn’t let them drop. I could finally understand what might have led Preston to commit these crimes.
“Goddamn, that Joe was an asshole,” I said.
“So now you’re starting to see where I’m coming from. I told you you would.”
“So Joe and your mom?”
“Yep, and I never forgave her, still don’t. She wanted into their lifestyle so much, she became his mistress. Well, one of them anyways. And to Joe, I’m sure she was just a notch on his bedpost or the forbidden taboo of sleeping with a close friend’s wife. Joe felt entitled to everything, and he didn’t care who it hurt along the way.”
Preston shook his empty glass at me, the ice jingling against the beveled sides. I made his drink and made myself a stronger one this time.
Handing him his drink I asked, “So what happened to her?”
“My mother?”
“Yeah.”
* * * * *
“After my father’s suicide, Mom went insane. Nobody knew what to do with her. She just sat in her room at her vanity table staring into the mirror, never moving, never saying a word. We had to get out of the house. Joe was no longer ambassador, and the British wanted everything related to his administration removed, forgotten. Mother was sent back to Mississippi to stay with her parents. When the locals back home found out the details—her infidelity, her husband’s suicide—they shunned her. Not that it mattered much, she stayed locked in her room staring at the walls all day anyways. Finally, her father had to send her to an institution out in Starkville. He didn’t know what to do for her anymore. She was gone.
“I was supposed to go back to Mississippi with her, but there was no way that was gonna happen. I moved in with Phillip, who had a little place near Oxford. I needed to stay in London, where all the action was. The family money went into a trust until Phillip and I were older, but we were allotted monthly living expenses.”
“At this point I’d changed: I went from your normal skirt chasing, rugby playing teen to a bitter, hateful machine with only revenge on my mind. Phillip was more like my mother, shell-shocked, numb. We didn’t talk much. He went through the motions of college, while I dropped out of prep school and started hanging out on the streets, drinking and getting in trouble, petty stuff mainly. The fact that I didn’t care and would do any crazy stunt that the street kids could think up made me a hero, ‘The Bollocks’ was their term. The ‘Yankee Nutter’ they called me. Can you believe that? Me, a Yankee?
“So basically, I roamed the streets of London for four years living with, but completely estranged from, my withdrawn brother, who sleepwalked through life, consumed with and plotting revenge against anything Kennedy. In 1944, an opportunity presented itself—Joe Kennedy Jr. was stationed nearby at Norfolk Royal Air Base. My plan was to get on the base in any capacity. I’d work from the inside, play the pity card, tell Joe I had nowhere else to go and ask him if he could get me on at the base, and once I got on, you know what happened.”
* * * * *
I leaned forward, put my drink down on the table between us, turned off the recorder, and lit up a Camel. Preston fired up his joint in concurrence. We both knew we were done with work for the day; not much else could be said. Besides, it was Thursday and that meant Thursday night college football. My phone was starting to go off, and I had to get the line for the game.
“Tell you what,” Preston said between puffs, “we got about a half hour ‘til kickoff, why don’t you head back to your place and take care of your business. I’ll pull myself together on this end and we’ll meet back here.”
“Sounds good,” I said, gathering up my stuff.
“We got the battle of the Mormons tonight,” he said.
“Huh?”
“BYU vs. Utah—clash of the Latter Day Saints, you don’t want to miss it. I’ll tell you what, that religion loves them some football.” He paused, and then got to the point, “What’s the line tonight?”
“Last I looked, BYU by four, might be up to five by now, I gotta check.”
“Who you like?” he asked.
“If you can get five, I’d go with Utah. You never know what’ll happen in a rivalry game, and if you got points to play with, you got the edge—plus, it’s at Utah,” I said confidently, thus convincing Preston.
“Hell, it’s house money anyways, right? If you can get five or better, put a nickel on the Utes for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, getting a little worried about overusing my layoff book. You don’t want to use a layoff book for personal action, things get too cluttered.
I called and got the latest lines. It had moved to five and I relayed the info to Preston. “Go ahead, put me down. Let’s make things interesting tonight,” he said, struggling to stand up. I put him in for a nickel and told him I’d be back to watch the game. At least Preston and I would be rooting for the same team; I knew beforehand I would only get BYU action. Nobody ever played Utah; maybe I should bump it up to six.
19
Jay’s arrival on Saturday morning was announced with a series of horn blasts that woke the whole house and brought us outside to see what the fuss was about. From my front porch, I watched in my boxers as Jay’s truck circled through the driveway, pulling a U-Haul trailer. Dayla followed in my truck—which gave me the odd out of body sensation of watching someone else using something that is uniquely yours. I threw on my shorts and ran to greet them. I was surprised by how excited it made me to see their familiar faces, and when Dayla pulled Wade out in his cat case, it made everything complete. I didn’t care how fruity I looked as I doted on Wade, and when he saw me, he purred loudly, poking his paws through the carrier holes.
This momentary lapse of maleness brought Corynne and Tucker over to see Wade. I hadn’t seen or heard fro
m her since the incident in the field. Her contrite eyes met mine as she gave me a nod and an awkward hello.
Tucker wasn’t so composed—he danced around the cage yelling, “Doggy, doggy, doggy.” I tried to correct him with, “kitty, kitty, kitty,” to no avail, doggy was a word he knew and he was sticking with it.
Jay introduced Dayla; her arrival caused more of a stir than Jay’s. The look everyone tried to conceal said it all. Her pitch-black hair contrasting against her pale, heavily tattooed skin was more than alarming to Preston, Matador, and Delotta. Dayla was the living antitheses of their classic southern belle. Unfazed, Dayla was charming and as beautiful as ever, and I knew she’d win them over just as Jay had, probably quicker. When Corynne and Dayla were introduced, they engaged in a stand-off unique to attractive girls—Corynne had to establish this as her territory, while Dayla had to show she wouldn’t be pushed around. Dayla blinked first with a remark about how adorable Tucker was, which broke the ice, followed by an obligatory remark from Corynne about how cute Dayla’s dress was to set the thaw.
Dayla and I had a long embrace. “Boy, Trenty, you really got yourself into something out here. And Jay, I’ve never seen him so pumped about anything. I just had to come and see for myself; make sure my boys aren’t getting into any trouble.”
I walked them to their new place; Dayla was just as impressed as Jay, and why not, it was a nice set up, and Delotta had prepared it immaculately for their arrival.
“So this is home,” she dropped her purse on the bed and took a good look around her new surroundings as only a woman can. Her wanton glare towards Jay told me it was time to leave them alone and let them break the place in properly.
“You don’t mind do you, Trenty?” she was already taking off Jay’s shirt.
“Sorry, T, what can I do, she can’t get enough of me,” Jay said with the shirt over his head.
“All right you kid’s have fun, don’t break anything, and give me a knock on the door later. I gotta go to work anyways.”