The tenth was a Friday. On Monday, about two hours after Lee had left for another day of putting together aluminum screen doors, a mud-colored station wagon pulled up to the curb in front of 2703. Marguerite Oswald was out on the passenger side almost before it stopped rolling. Today the red kerchief had been replaced by a white one with black polka dots, but the nurse’s shoes were the same, and so was the look of dissatisfied pugnacity. She had found them, just as Robert had said she would.
I was looking out through the crack between the drapes, but saw no point in powering up the mike. This was a story that needed no soundtrack.
The friend who had driven her — a portly gal — struggled out from behind the wheel and fanned the neck of her dress. The day was already another scorcher, but Marguerite cared nothing for that. She hustled her chauffeur around to the trunk of the station wagon. Inside was a high chair and a bag of groceries. Marguerite took the former; her friend hoisted the latter.
The jump-rope girl with the scooter came riding up, but Marguerite gave her short shrift. I heard “Scat, child!” and the jump-rope girl rode away with her lower lip pooched out.
Marguerite marched up the bald rut that served as a front walk. While she was eyeing the loose step, Marina came out. She was wearing a smock top and the kind of shorts Mrs. Oswald didn’t approve of for married women. I wasn’t surprised that Marina liked them. She had terrific legs. Her expression was one of startled alarm, and I didn’t need my makeshift amplifier to hear her.
“No, Mamochka — Mamochka, no! Lee say no! Lee say no! Lee say—” Then a quick rattle of Russian as Marina expressed what her husband had said in the only way she could.
Marguerite Oswald was one of those Americans who believe foreigners are sure to understand you if you just speak
“Yes… Lee… has… his… PRIDE!” she bugled. She climbed to the porch (deftly avoiding the bad step) and spoke directly into her daughter-in-law’s startled face. “Nothing… wrong… with that… but he can’t… let… my GRANDDAUGHTER… pay… the PRICE!”
She was beefy. Marina was willowy. “Mamochka” steamed inside without a second look. This was followed by a moment of silence, then a longshoreman’s bellow.
Deep in the house, probably in Rosette’s old bedroom, June began to wail.
The woman who had driven Marguerite gave Marina a tentative smile, then went inside with the bag of groceries.
Lee came walking down Mercedes Street from the bus stop at five-thirty, banging a black dinnerbucket against one thigh. He mounted the steps, forgetting the bad one. It shifted; he tottered, dropped his dinnerbucket, then bent to pick it up.
He went in. I watched him cross the living room and put his dinnerbucket on the kitchen counter. He turned and saw the new high chair. He obviously knew his ma’s modus operandi, because next he opened the rusty refrigerator. He was still peering into it when Marina came out of the baby’s room. She had a diaper over her shoulder, and the binocs were good enough for me to see there was some spit-up on it.
She spoke to him, smiling, and he turned to her. He had the fair skin that’s every easy blusher’s bane, and his scowling face was bright red all the way to his thinning hair. He started shouting at her, pointing a finger at the refrigerator (the door still stood open, exhaling vapor). She turned to go back into the baby’s room. He caught her by the shoulder, spun her around, and began to shake her. Her head snapped back and forth.
I didn’t want to watch this, and there was no reason I should; it added nothing to what I needed to know. He was a beater, yes, but she was going to survive him, which was more than John F. Kennedy could say… or Officer Tippit, for that matter. So no, I didn’t need to see. But sometimes you can’t look away.
They argued it back and forth, Marina no doubt trying to explain that she didn’t
