A Warm November Day

It was a warm Friday afternoon, especially for November, in Washington, D.C.  Our sixth grade class was engaged in copying spelling words or some such busy work.  It was silent in the room except for the hum of the fluorescent lights.  The blinds were drawn to cut the glare from the sunshine.  Many of my classmates had their heads on their desks, fighting sleep.  I couldn’t wait to go home, get rid of my starched white shirt and neck tie and run down to the neighborhood playground and see if anyone was there for a pick-up basketball game.

The principal at my school, St. Ann School in Arlington, Virginia, was Sister Joseph Marie (or “JM” as we called her).  We all lived in mortal fear of her.   We were never summoned to her office because we had done something really good.  She never came to the classroom.   We were all shocked out of our reverie when the door exploded open and JM stormed in like her habit was on fire.  Her face was crimson and her hands were trembling.  She glared at us.  She thrust her hands on her hips to try to calm herself.  She was stooped over and looked suddenly very old.  What in God’s holy name had we done to incur this wrath?

She collected herself finally and in a cracking voice announced: “Your President has been shot and you better pray!”

That was it.  She twirled around and stomped towards the next classroom.  Our homeroom teacher was a younger nun. (Exact nun ages are hard to guess.)  She calmly told us to take out our rosaries and we recited the requisite “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys”.  Lacking any other direction, we lapsed into an even more intense silence.  My eyes focused on dust that was floating in the air and highlighted by the afternoon sun while questions bounced around inside my brain:  “Who? Why? How bad?”  Dismissal time came and we walked silently, singe file, into the coat room.  Contrary to every other day in the coat room, there was no chatter or banter.  I looked at my best friend Danny and our eyes locked.  He then rabbit punched me in the shoulder, wheeled around and returned to his seat.  I grabbed my jacket and lunch box and returned to my seat as well, trying to ignore the throb in my deltoid.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy was the first Roman Catholic president.  He was young and therefore in direct contrast to the men he had followed.  He had a beautiful wife and little kids.  He was an idealist.  We all idolized him.  My Republican parents bought a new television (which was extremely out of character) to watch his inauguration.  My older sister had volunteered for his campaign.  JFK was bigger than life.  We felt like we knew him.  We trusted him.  We felt safe with him in the White House.  (It had only been a year since he called the Commie’s bluff in Cuba and made Khrushchev back down, after all.)  He audaciously promised Americans would walk on the moon by the end of the decade and, for some crazy reason, we all believed him. 

I walked briskly home, noticing that there was very little traffic.  The brilliant sunlight brought out the vivid reds and yellows in the crinkly leaves on the sidewalks.  When I got home, the house was empty.  My Mom didn’t work or drive and I don’t really remember where she was.  I had a house key and let myself in.  I ran for the TV in time to see Walter Cronkite take off his clunky black glasses and, fighting back tears, announce that John Kennedy had just died. 

We lived the rest of that day and night in a numb cloud.  My mother came home shortly thereafter and my Dad drove home early from work in downtown D.C.  We hardly spoke.  I don’t remember what we ate for dinner, but being Friday, it was probably frozen Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks. The meal was eaten off of unstable aluminum TV tray tables as we were assaulted with images of a frantic Jackie Kennedy scrambling on the back of the black Lincoln limousine for a fragment of her husband’s skull, a somber Lyndon Johnson taking the Oath of Office on Air Force One and anguished mourners on the streets of cities around the world.  Most of our food went uneaten.

Saturday was an even more spectacular weather day as was Sunday.  We went to Mass which should have helped but didn’t.  Back at home I finally had had enough funereal television viewing and needed to go shoot some baskets, run around the block, do anything but sit stunned in front of the TV.  I stood up in our small family room, stretched, and was about to depart when they announced that Lee Harvey Oswald, the suspected assassin, was to be transferred to another jail.  While watching that, a man named Jack Ruby emerged from a cluster of bystanders and fatally shot Oswald at point blank range on live television.  At that point I was sure that the world had gone officially mad.

I had similar feelings over the ensuing years.  Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated and rioters nearly destroyed my city.  Bobby Kennedy was killed while running for President, ending the hope of a quick resolution of the Viet Nam war.  The war itself escalated and too many of my contemporaries were killed or wounded.  Images of dead and maimed teenagers in the jungles of Southeast Asia emanated from the same television screen which had shown me Jackie Kennedy in her pink coat stained with her husband’s blood. The nation was then deceived and nearly destroyed by Richard Nixon and his cronies as the drama painfully unfolded, again, on national television. 

Even the cumulative shock of all of those events pales, however, compared to the warm November day that my president was shot.

Book Review: The Museum of Dr. Moses by Joyce Carol Oates

The Museum of Dr. Moses

Author: Joyce Carol Oates

Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Date of Publication: August 4, 2008

Pages: 240 (Trade Paperback Edition)

     The Museum of Dr. Moses is a collection of ten stories written by Joyce Carol Oates over a number of years and published in various literary and mystery magazines.  They all are very eloquent pieces of writing with superb descriptions and character developments, even within the confines of the genre (short fiction).  Each story contains a macabre character (or two) who carom through the lives of more or less sane folks around them.   I read this book while vacationing at the Outer Banks during the week of Halloween.  The beach was deserted and the northern beaches were dark and quiet.  This was the perfect book to read that week!

     Many of the stories channel the energy and madness of Edgar Allan Poe.  Valentine, July Heat Wave resonates with the horror of The Telltale Heart.  The final story in the collection, The Museum of Dr. Moses is as horrific as any penned by Poe.  There are several stories which study serial killers and their psyche, including Dr. Moses, Hi, Howya' Doin'? and Bad Habits.  

     The author does a masterful job of examining the effects these depraved characters have on their families, co-workers and even innocent strangers.  The best example of this is in Suicide Watch, where a father confronts his imprisoned son who may or may not have killed his own son.  Meeting with his son in a court-mandated psychiatric hospital, the father realizes what his son is capable of:  "There was something wrong with the son's eyes, set deep in their sockets, bloodshot, with a peculiar smudged glare like worn-out Plexiglass."  Another story which hones in on this ripple effect is The Man Who Fought Roland Le Strange.  In this story a boxer loses his big fight which leads to a downward spiral in his personal life.  His best friend sorts through the wreckage of both of their lives. 

     This is a strong collection of stories for which the reader needs to be in the right frame of mind.  Like Poe, Joyce Carol Oates shocks the reader by presenting characters who appear fairly normal on the surface but have a macabre inner core which most never see.  In particular, it's hard to forget Dr. Moses.

Book Review: Indiscretion by Charles Dubow

Indiscretion 

Author: Charles Dubow

Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

Date of Publication: February 2, 2013

Pages: 388 (NOOK Edition)

     This is a first novel by Charles Dubow, a financial writer and founding editor of Forbes.com and an editor for "Business Week".  This is an ambitious novel, filled with excellent character development and sense of place.  The part of the story which takes place in East Hampton, New York is exceptionally vivid since the author spent a good deal of his youth there.  The scenes in Paris are also particularly good.  

     The story is very shop worn.  A middle aged author, somewhat enthused with himself over recent literary success, succumbs to a young, unattached and (of course) bewitchingly beautiful woman.  The inevitability of the plot is off set by the outstanding character development and also by convincing dialogue.  The author uses a narrator (an East Hampton lawyer, neighbor and childhood friend of the main character) to tell most of the story in the first person.  He shifts to dialogue between the main characters, again from an omniscient narrator's point of view, which is  a bit confusing at times.  The author also adds back story through narrator reminiscences which, while for the most point are illuminating, sometimes are distracting and exacerbate the already slow pace of the story.

     One of the unique aspects of this novel, however, is that (as opposed to A. S. A. Harrison's The Silent Wife)  there is no clear cut villain.  Everyone seems equally innocent (or guilty, depending on your point of view) for the tragedy which unfolds.   Although the plot is tortoise-like, there is a horrific twist at the end and a thoroughly depressing epilogue which underscores the author's point that when trust is broken, everybody loses.

     This is a very worthy first effort for this author and I look forward to future novels from Mr. Dubow.