"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald (6 page)

Why not? All that awaited him on the morrow was more of the same. Lee despised his existence, perceiving himself one of nature's mistakes. Maybe there was, as his mother Marguerite insisted, a better place up there. If not, oblivion would likely prove preferable to more of
this
.

Lee had spent the morning seated in a cramped apartment he shared with his mother at 1454 Saint Mary Street, listening to an album of heartbreaking songs that touched him in a way current pop hits by performers such as Patti Page and Doris Day, popular with The Normals, did not. The selection of mournful saloon-ballads was performed by Frank Sinatra. The disc, “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning,” had been released by Capitol. After catching the title tune on the radio, Lee had hurried out to purchase his own copy. During the past week he'd listened to it, again and again, each day at precisely the same time.

Lee owned other Sinatra albums, but this one struck him as special. In the past, The Voice always presented diverse styles on his latest 33 1/3 L.P., ranging from slow, sultry romantic tunes to upbeat swing. A Concept Album was how the guy at the record store described this disc after congratulating Lee for not, like most other kids, purchasing “Rocket 88“ by Ike Turner or “Rock Around the Clock” by Bill Haley and the Comets, both of which this salesman carried only out of economic necessity.

“I'm not like most kids my age,” Lee replied. He despised the New Music which overnight became all the rage with typical teenagers. Lee considered rock 'n' roll emblematic of everything that had gone wrong with the world during these past few years. Besides, if others of his age group loved it, he—despising them for their normalcy—must go entirely in the other direction.

“I knew that the moment you walked in,” the store owner said. Lee wasn't certain if that were intended as a compliment, an insult, or merely an observation. Carrying his purchase, Lee made his way back to his current living space which, if things proceeded as usual, would be relegated to a past address in three months. Marguerite would raise a finger on high, not unlike a Puritanical schoolmarm about to deliver a lecture, and announce, as she had many times before: “We must move!”

As if that, in and of itself, would solve all of this family's multitude of problems.

“A fresh start. New surroundings. This time it'll all be different, Lee. No, don't cry. And don't laugh. It scares me when you laugh like that, even more than when you cry.”

But things didn't become better. Years later, while Lee served in the Marines, a smart top sergeant shared a phrase Lee never forgot: “There is nothing more stupid than doing the same thing time after time, always expecting a different result.”

While home on leave from the service (another temporary home, as with all the others), Lee had tried to explain that to Marguerite. She didn't get it. Told him to stop bothering her with silly talk. Then left for hours, not the first time she'd done so. On more than one occasion, Marguerite disappeared for several days, eventually wandering back, blithely smiling.

“How's my boy? My baby boy? Lee? What's ... wrong?”

Lee spent that leave in New Orleans mostly alone. When she returned to their shabby apartment, Marguerite announced she had experienced an epiphany: They must move back to Fort Worth at once. Or maybe to New York? Hadn't they been happy there, living with Lee's half-brother John, Marguerite's son from her first marriage, and his wife? No, actually.

Bad as things had been everywhere, that struck Lee as the worst. Except for the Bronx Zoo. That, Lee adored. When no one else stood nearby he'd whisper to the animals. They loved him! Lee sensed that they waited patiently for his return, he the only visitor beyond those bars who felt as caged as they did.

Animals were wonderful. So sincere. Not like ... people.

Otherwise, New York had not been so good
.
In fact, awful.

*

What made this day different, somehow worse, than all the others? He'd woken with a start, as always, at seven. Marguerite was even then leaving for work. Wherever they lived, she always managed to find a job, more often than not on some managerial level. This required her to leave at dawn and return at dark.

Lee moped around the current house during daylight hours, then headed out in the evening, to whatever solace he found out there. Some dreary bar or greasy-spoon-diner, worthy to serve as model for yet another melancholy Edward Hopper painting. There, other nighthawks met to join in world-weary conversation.

Always, Lee sat alone, a stale beer or watery cup of coffee before him. Purchased not to consume, necessary if he were to be allowed to remain undisturbed. Always too there were The Movies.

Not first-run houses, frequented by couples and families. When Lee wanted to catch a flick, he'd head for some second-run theatre, likely in disrepair. Their forlorn appearances vividly reflected the way this patron felt about himself.

In such a run-down enclave Lee could drop into a torn seat for several hours of oblivion. The equivalent, in whatever town he happened to inhabit, of 42
nd
Street in Manhattan, where crowds of derelicts, hipsters, and kids who wanted to perform forbidden acts in the smoke and semi-darkness conjoined: where last week's wanna-be hits
were now relegated to today's also-rans, and the 1948 Western epic
Red River
with John Wayne played forever.

At such downtrodden bijous Lee found himself swept off to dream worlds, more true for him in their drab-noir black-and-white or glossy Technicolor than unrewarding everyday life.

Even in such a sordid place, the clientele composed of out-of-mainstream types similar to if not as extreme as he, Lee would make it a point upon entering to check out the crowd, then locate a seat as geometrically far from all the others as possible. That way, he could be alone in the crowd.

True, he hated being by himself. Far worse though was being with other people. What Lee most hated was being alive. The central question of his life had always been: Why was I born?

Always, when in the south, he would veer to his left and sit in the section reserved for colored people. Though his skin might be white, Lee alone appreciated how alien they must feel as a minority group. He himself constituted a minority of one.

*

I could use a movie. Maybe there's a theatre around here. If I happen upon one, I'll go in. No matter what's playing. I'll catch a movie and I'll feel better. Or at least less bad.

When the going gets tough, businessman Joseph Kennedy once claimed, the tough get going. The weak? They head for the nearest movie. Hoping for oblivion. The smart ones on some level sense that what movies offer is less an escape from reality than a means of comprehending it. Filled with iconic visions that alter, perhaps without our realizing it, the way we see, act, and live once we've drifted back out of the theatre, onto the street; changed, if in ways we do not always comprehend.

Lee had always been one of ‘the weak.' Today, his stress felt more impossible to bear than ever. The pain began with the arrival of the morning mail. Ordinarily, Lee did not bother to fetch it. Marguerite would do that when she returned. There was never anything for Lee, anyway. Who would write to him?

Suddenly, he felt an uncontrollable instinct to retrieve whatever had been dropped off in the rusty metal box out front.

Minutes later, as Lee dropped bills, form letters and a
Life
magazine down on the table, he recognized John's writing on an envelope. The letter was addressed to Marguerite. John so rarely wrote her. On some occasions, they might receive a note from Lee's older brother Robert Jr. Not John. Lee's half-brother hated to write, would go to the expense of calling long distance if he wanted or needed to confer with Marguerite.

Though Lee harbored the greatest respect for a person's privacy, he found himself giving in to temptation. First, Lee tried to ease the envelope open, sliding a knife under the seal, planning to re-seal it so Marguerite wouldn't know. Lee had bungled that, as he managed to do most everything, by tearing the paper. Frustrated, he ripped the envelope open, figuring that later on he'd lie and claim to have done so by mistake.

What Lee read devastated the fifteen-year-old:

 

Hello mother

Hope this finds you well. Lee too. I am truly sorry that you had to leave under such awful circumstances. My wife could stand no more. Nor could I. Enough on that. We will talk about it someday when the wounds heal. Perhaps. I need to tell you about a conversation I had with Dr. Hartogs. He called and sounded concerned as he told me about his last meeting with Lee. Dr. Hartogs is much upset for Lee. He believes that Lee needs help and as much as possible. He says that if you do not find a doctor down there he has no idea what might happen. I know how you dote on Lee and spoil him something awful. But even you must grasp that he is a strange boy. That doesn't mean bad. I don't mean that. Mother, in all truth I do not know quite what I mean. I don't have the words, not being educated. But Dr. Hartogs does. He is a wise man and a good one too. Clearly he cares about his patients. Other people, also. Dr. Hartogs says that if Lee is not looked over properly he could be a danger to himself. But beyond that he might prove a danger to others. I don't know quite what he meant by that. He would not speak any more on the subject. Mother, the man knows something! I can only hope that you realize the seriousness of this situation and take action. Lee needs help!

Your loving son,

John

 

Suddenly out of control, Lee tore the letter into bits, wildly tossing them in the air like makeshift confetti. His laughter rolled out of control as the shredded pieces fell. Afterwards, and for a long while, Lee stood in the kitchen, barely moving, wailing at the top of his lungs.

Then, hoarse, Lee grabbed his jacket and ran out onto the street. How dare his brother write such a later?

Spoiled and sick, that's how my brother, maybe the world, sees me. You know nothing about me! None of you. No idea who the person is, living under this skin I was cursed with ...

*

All at once, there it was: a theatre. Turning a corner, Lee bumped into the booth out front. Lee glanced up at the marquee and noticed the current film starred Sinatra. This must be preordained! He'd watch the guy he'd listened to through the wee small hours of the morning, when the whole wide world was fast asleep.

Incredibly, when Lee scanned the schedule of showings, he noticed that the Sinatra film would start in five minutes. How was that for timing? This, Lee decided, was meant to be. He would watch this film because it was so written that he would.

Lee purchased a ticket for one dollar and headed into the musty auditorium. The stale air reeked of yesterday's popcorn, cheap cigarettes, and urine on the floor back in the bathrooms. Lee scanned the area, found himself a soiled seat in the colored section, where he would feel most at home, and plopped down.

The titles rolled over a black-and-white background that depicted a small town somewhere in the southwest. The film's title turned out to be at one with this burg:
Suddenly
. Rugged Sterling Hayden played a local lawman who had little to do but provide directions for passersby whenever they mistakenly pulled off the main road and needed help finding their way out of here.

Initially, Lee felt vaguely disappointed. The low-budget production values were bad enough. Where was
Frank?
Lee tried to concentrate as Hayden bird-dogged some middle-aged woman whose husband had been killed in Korea. The sheriff hoped to get her to marry him so he could take care of the lady and her kid.

Problem was, she couldn't deal with the thought of Hayden, as a law enforcement professional, carrying a gun. That's what had stolen her husband's life.

Lee did appreciate something Hayden tried to tell her: “Guns aren't necessarily bad. It depends on who uses them.”

Amen to that
! Lee had discovered the joys of gun-ownership at age eight, after Marguerite without warning up and decided to travel from Louisiana to Texas. Less than a week later, they'd relocated in downtown Fort Worth.

Lee soon learned that the boys in school all headed out onto the adjacent prairie whenever they had free time. There, they'd shoot at jackrabbits with .22 caliber rifles. Every boy owned one. Always the loner, Lee had not been invited to join in. Marguerite, like the woman in this film, expressed an intense dislike for fire-arms. Eventually Lee talked her into buying him one on his birthday, October 18.

Later that afternoon he headed out to practice. By himself, other kids having sensed something different—'queer' even—about this new arrival. No matter. He'd grown used to it.

Lee did not have much luck at first. He was not a natural shot. No matter. He'd fire round after round until he got the knack of it. One thing he did grasp: shooting would from this moment on forever be a part of his life. He enjoyed the kick of the butt against his arm, the jolt he experienced; that sudden, unique smell of powder as a small blue cloud rose in a swirl and passed across his face.

Maybe the reason he didn't score so well was that the last thing in the world he wanted to do was kill small animals.

That, the Normal Boys loved. Lee? He'd have to find something else. Something that deserved, maybe even needed, killing. Well, he was young. There'd be time a-plenty for
that.

*

In the film, the woman's eight-year-old, nicknamed ‘Pidge,' was kind of cocky, perhaps because he'd been raised without a father. Lee could relate to
that
. Pidge and his mother lived in a small house up on a hill above their town. Not so much a hill, really, as ... how to describe it? ... a grassy knoll.