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Add My StoryAuthor: William Norris
“No One Knew What to Say”
The lunchroom had that buzz of anticipation, this contagion with the cool days coming, Thanksgiving week nearing us. We’d be all settled in. Lou was usually late. Don was first, his role to stake out our table never in doubt. Ed Senkowski tirelessly brought our drinks, chocolate or vanilla milk. I’d be wet from showering after gym, usually run late. A team effort. We’d belong to each other. On this day, I’d realize that to run my parlay cards for the coming week’s games, I needed to meet with Dante earlier in the week, have my picks sharp and ready. Don had his eyes framing Karen Palou. She’d saunter by, wearing a tight gray dress, appearing suede, her exquisite legs covered by gray nylons, her mere scent brushing our appetite to the floor. Some laughed at Don, his antics, others did not notice. Everyone seemed happy that the weekend was near.
Then, overhead the PA system crackled above the clamor. Mr. Sawyer’s controlled administrative voice saying, “I have a brief announcement: On a trip to Dallas, President Kennedy has been shot. We will keep you apprised of developments.” It felt as though we’d be at church and something went terribly wrong, such as the priest had been taken sick. A moment of doubt, thunderstruck silence gushed up from the table the way a blast of dangerous gas might greet each of us – faces froze, few said anything. We’d be stunned in this safe harbor of unconquerable truth that now etched young eager faces with an icy edge, an adult cast, taking us from our moment of being young and free.
Finally, Lou who’d sit a distance down our long brown table, his usual appetite had teeth, but not in this moment: “My God – what’ll become of us. This is terrible. The worst.” We’d finish our lunch in a dull hush of swollen doubt, this sense that our world fell away, taken somewhere. Yet, with all of the murmuring talk and uneasy shrugs around us, there seemed some essential trust. Lou was actually the only one who’d known who our Vice President was: “Be alright. Johnson ’ll carry on with the same policies. Master politician, for sure.”
There was very little conversation, the lunchroom becoming like the library, the sounds of trays, chairs being moved, brought an unusual lengthening to our twenty-five minute lunch. We had absolutely no idea of the ensuing details; we’d imagine the President was taken to the hospital and then everything should return to normal. I was safely sitting next to my seatmate, Ronald Westbrook, on my immediate left, his right arm bracing up his tired head after lunch. Mr. Richmond, our US History teacher, now began discussing the day’s lesson, how this was important.
The PA found us, revealing Mr. Sawyer’s dry, urgent voice: “President Kennedy was taken to the hospital, where efforts to revive him were unsuccessful. I’m sorry to tell you that our president is dead.” Mr. Richmond reached for the unoccupied table in front, weighing his left side against it; he’d be in his early fifties, appearing in need of fresh air. We’d be absolutely speechless. I did not know what to think, feel.
Mr. Richmond composed himself, whittling some space between his collar and tie. “If you feel it appropriate, we could continue, people. You have the option of studying, if you choose.” In an awkward moment, we’d limply raise our hands to continue the day’s lesson; but before, Mr. Richmond now helped alleviate our distress by discussing ‘Presidential Succession’ and what our constitution provides. He actually handled it very well; he knew exactly what was needed. “And if any of you want to comment, ask questions, just raise your hand.” He was very caring.
Very few knew enough to ask much. We’d mostly listen to our teacher relate how the system works and what happens. We’d be just taken far out to waters quite unlike anything we knew before. No one knew what to say, how to react to our sudden tragedy. I had wanted to be alone in my room, by myself. It seemed unreal to each one of us. Most of my friends, other than Lou, just did not want to talk about what had happened. It may have been too much for us. I felt a part of me had been taken – somewhere around your heart, where you hold things so important that you only feel, think of these, at very special times; I had wished that I’d be back in the old neighborhood, some place where people were more respectful, supportive of one another. And from this day, I’d gradually realize we were not the same. Every news report told us that we had our system in place and everything kept moving.
People now talked of our country as being prone to violence, as though such a mindset may have paved the way for what followed: two days after the assassination, as Oswald was being transferred, he’d be shot by Jack Ruby, live, on national TV. It had the macabre undertow of a modern western, somehow; these guys with gray and white cowboy hats on, grappled with the shooter, right there in the hallway for the whole world to take in. It descended from unreal to surreal so quickly. It was too much for us.
“This really is so stupid, “Jacky said, when we’d learn how the football games would not be televised on Sunday. My father’s face reddened. “Out of respect, that’s why! Guys can’t see that? Respect for the man! The least we can do.” Jacky and I pretty well understood; what felt hypocritical was the games were played anyway. I thought it an insult to us as a people – some explanation surfaced of how the games could not be made up; somewhere, I knew that an imbalance, some disturbing inconsistency had asserted itself. It reminded me of some kids at St. Paul’s, usually bigger and older, jumping in front of others in line. “It’s not fair,” I’d protest. “They just should reschedule the damn games.” I knew that much. “Out of sorts ‘cause – or,” my father began, “didn’t move your parlay cards. Right?” He had that challenge ready in his voice. “No, dad. Just didn’t. Not right. Didn’t make my pick ups.”
He’d look at me as though he had trusted me with his last dollar, as if I’d done something right in his eyes. Yet, he’d say nothing. I expected nothing. I didn’t try getting the Bears on radio. “We’re all losers today – all lose,” I said, seeing his eyes glaze. “For once, you’re right, Tommy,” he agreed, “all of us lose.” “What’s that writer say? Can lose, but be yet undefeated … something like that.” Then, I’d see his face strengthen, tighten around his mouth, forehead. His eyes had gleaned this painful knowing: “See, that’s what he stood for – the working man, the guy who has to go to work for companies that cheat them, keep them down. And for once, we had a guy there for us.” He’d return to his Sunday paper, for once letting me know something of his battle-scarred self.
I thought here we finally knew each other – the idea of being this open a rare thing, along with my father not viewing me as a money grubbing kid, who’d forgo a few bucks in not moving the pink cards at the bars and with my buddies at school. I’d be glad that we’d understand each other better. It felt good to have any positive in the least. We would be taken far out of ourselves, some haunting light trying to find its way behind your heart, ready with these images that were not allowed inside, where you’d let secrets lay. Our house felt smaller. I wanted someone – something, maybe – to take me out of myself the way music did. The TV blasted its black and white images, mostly news people discussing matters that felt empty, of lesser importance.
I’d wonder for maybe the fourteenth time how I was supposed to feel, understand what was there. I looked out our window to find no one even walking, or driving down our street. I looked across to Jean’s house, thinking of her, wanting to relate the way I was feeling. I’d realize I could not know exactly what to tell her of this dark, empty place, or the one that used to be there, knowing, trusting it like your family. The H-bomb had not been dropped but something had taken our indefinable sense of the possible, where dreams align with our waking step to seek pure, true light. It seemed there still, yet much further than it should.
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