Frame 232 (4 page)

For a moment there was nothing but the purr of the projector’s gears and a run of scrambled letters on the wall. Then came the first images of the president’s motorcade as it flowed onto Houston.

Margaret was overwhelmed by sensory recall
 
—the warmth of the sun on her cheeks, the scent of grass in the plaza and a nice perfume that the afternoon breeze had carried from one of the other women nearby, and the uncomfortable sliminess of perspiration mounting under her too-heavy outfit. She also remembered, for the first time, what she had planned to do with the rest of her day once Kennedy had passed
 
—put the camera and her disguise back in the car, then return to the office and say she felt a little better and wanted to carry on. Lomax would’ve liked that. And if Kennedy had waved to her, she would’ve confessed everything to Ron over dinner that evening and laughed when he shook his head.

The motorcade eased onto Elm, and the president came
into view. It occurred to Margaret then that the film’s quality was, as many researchers had theorized, outstanding. The images were sharp, the colors vivid, and her hand had been remarkably steady.
A hundred times better than the Zapruder film,
she thought.
And closer . . . much closer. . . .

As the president and First Lady drew nearer, she could see Abraham Zapruder clearly on the Bryan pergola with his receptionist, Marilyn Sitzman, behind him. As Margaret had suspected all along, there was no view of the sixth-floor window in the book depository building in her film. And the assassination was mere seconds away.

She could not bring herself to look at Kennedy as he was struck. She had been unable to pull her eyes away twelve years earlier, but she would not witness it now.
That’s not why you’re watching anyway, is it?
Of all the conspiracy theories that had been put forth over the years, one that had really gained traction concerned a supposed second shooter behind the fence atop the grassy knoll. When that area of the plaza came into view, Margaret fixed on it. When the president was hit
 
—she was aware of it even though she wasn’t looking there
 
—she searched for any signs of that elusive second shooter. A rifle barrel being leveled between the pickets, perhaps, or the head of a man in sunglasses. Even a puff of smoke as a shot was fired. . . . But there was nothing, nothing at all. Just the trees and the shade and the few bystanders who had long since been identified. There was no one there.

She smiled with an unpolluted elation she had not felt in ages.

Nobody. All those nuts who’ve been poring over blurry photographs with their magnifying glasses have been
 
—

Then she saw something else, something well away from the stockade fence and the grassy knoll and Abraham
Zapruder and the book depository building. Something unbelievable.

She rewound the film and played it again. Once again the motorcade turned onto Elm. . . . The president and First Lady waved cheerfully to the adoring crowd. . . . Zapruder lifted his Bell & Howell and began filming.

And again she saw it.

“No,” she said in a tone soaked with dread.
“No . . .”

She watched it again, just to be sure, then a fourth time.

When she went into the upstairs bathroom a short time later, there was more blood.

Margaret had never been to Texas First National before. She and Ron did all their banking at Dallas Fidelity, on the other side of town. That was exactly why she had come here.

She went to a teller window and asked to see the manager. The woman, with a turtleneck sweater and a beaded eyeglass chain, gave her a once-over. It was highly unusual for a female customer to make such a request. In fact, it was unusual for any married woman to come in without her husband. What was this lady up to?

“I’m not sure he’s available right now.”

“He’s expecting me.”

The teller’s carefully drawn eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

The appraisal continued. Then, in a tone that suggested she wasn’t ready to admit defeat just yet, the woman said, “I’ll see if I can find him.”

“Thank you.”

Margaret retreated to a quiet corner so as to not attract further attention. The teller returned a moment later,
followed by a tall, well-built man in a pin-striped suit. His black hair was combed like that of a child on school-picture day. The rest of his all-female team stopped what they were doing when he appeared, their faces drawn with concern. He was the rooster of this particular henhouse.

“Can I help you?” There was no attempt at friendliness. His precious time was being wasted.

The teller hung around until Margaret shot her a look, then stalked off.

“I believe you spoke to Mr. Moore earlier this morning?”

The manager, whose name tag read
Kelso
, said, “Moore?”

“Henry Moore. The attorney?”

Kelso stiffened; he clearly did not like being contacted by attorneys.

“He’s a friend of my husband’s,” Margaret said, her stomach tightening, “and handles all of our legal matters. I think he told you I would be coming here to put some things in our new box.”

“Box? You mean
 
—”

“A safe-deposit box.”

“Oh, uh-huh. And you are . . . ?”

“Margaret Baker.”

“Margaret Baker, right.”

“It was opened for us yesterday.”

“I believe I remember that.”

He paused to study her, the faintest trace of a smile on his otherwise-dour face. Margaret felt fear begin to crawl through her. The struggle to maintain a casual air was beginning to slip out of its leash.
He’s seen women do this before. He’s going to call Ronnie. . . .

“Do you have the items with you?”

“Yes, right here.”

She drew a small cloth bag from her pocketbook and held it open for Kelso to inspect. Inside was an impressive cache of gold coins, dull-shiny and in various denominations that Ronnie had collected over the years. He kept them in a small lockbox under their bed.

Kelso’s face brightened, revealing the actual
 
—and unabashedly greedy
 
—soul underneath. “Well, look at those.”

“They belonged to my grandparents, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving them around the house.”

He reached in, removed one, and admired it. “I wouldn’t want these lying around either.”

“So is it all right if I . . . ?”

“Hmm? Oh yes.” He tossed the coin back in the bag resentfully. “Follow me.”

He led her to the bank’s spacious vault. The safe-deposit boxes were in a separate, smaller room on the right.

“I believe Mr. Moore reserved number 423 for us.”

“Number 423.”

“I have the key right here.”

Moving to the far right corner, Kelso opened the little door and then pulled the box out by its loop handle. It was auto-primer gray and about the size of two shoe boxes set end to end. He carried it to the small table in the middle of the room. The lid opened like an alligator’s mouth.

“Here it is.”

“Thank you.”

Kelso lingered until it became obvious that his guest was not going to do anything while he was there, then left.

Margaret put the cloth bag back into her pocketbook and took out the film. Just having the box in her hand again
made her feel nauseous. She also took out a standard-size envelope with the words
For Ronnie or Sheila
written across the front. The flap had been sealed.

She wondered for the millionth time if this was the right thing to do. It could be that this was just one of those situations where there
was
no perfect solution and you simply had to go with your best guess.
If that’s true, then please, God, please let this guess be the right one.

She felt tears coming on again, so without further hesitation she placed both items into the receptacle. It slid back into its cavity easily, and she locked the swinging outer door. Then she returned to the lobby, where Kelso was making time with his harem.

“You’re finished?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Will there be anything else today?”

“No, that’s it.”

When she stepped onto the sidewalk, she paused to scan her surroundings. This had become a habit now, born from the fear of being watched or followed. Every stranger had become a threat, every glance in her direction a cause for concern. Were they really out there, searching for her? Were there really men in dark shadows, monitoring her every move, listening to her every conversation? Were they waiting for an opportunity? Did they plan to eliminate her, as they had apparently done to so many others associated with the assassination?

It was a beautiful clear day, cheerful under ordinary circumstances. But then November 22, 1963, had started out the same way. Margaret couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt anything even close to cheer. It seemed like a part of someone else’s life, a long time ago. She didn’t want to think
about it anymore. She had done what had to be done; whatever happened now was out of her control.

She took one last look around, then hailed a cab and disappeared into the afternoon traffic.

PARKLAND HOSPITAL

Present day

IT WAS NOTHING
but a waiting game now, a cruel and macabre waiting game.

Sheila Baker watched her mother’s face, framed within the hospital pillow. The eyes, reduced to sunken orbs covered by parchment skin, had been closed for a while now. Her nose and mouth were trapped inside the oxygen mask, clear plastic with pale-green straps. Her breathing was erratic, as it had been for the last two days. A drip bag hung nearby, filled with fluid that streamed into her ravaged body, and a mile of gauze ran around her wrist to hold the needle in place. The room was kept immaculately clean by the hospital staff, the sheets changed daily. Yet the reek of death hung heavy in the air. The clinical-looking clock on the wall held no relevance; time was measured in here by the rhythmic hiss of the respirator. For Margaret Baker, who had turned seventy-eight nine weeks earlier, this room was her universe now, her gateway from this world into the next.

She had smoked for years, a habit she’d first picked up in the 1950s, when smoking was considered safe and fashionable and people puffed away in airplanes, offices, restaurants, and
elevators. The idea that you could die from it was as distant as the notion of committing gradual suicide from the sustained consumption of fried foods, the use of dirty needles, or living down the street from certain types of power plants. By the time academics started publishing their studies proving otherwise, she was hooked. When she finally mustered the willpower to break free of its grip, the cancer had already set up shop. Doctors were summoned, friends rallied round, and a spirit of cautious hopefulness arose. But lung cancer was almost always a nonrefundable ticket to the grave, and the light of optimism first dimmed and then flickered out. Margaret had accepted the truth and, with characteristic courage, focused not on fighting a losing battle but rather on making the final stage of her journey as uncomplicated as possible.

She’d been a patient at Parkland twenty-six times over the last three years. The first few visits were overnight stays for observation and an endless litany of tests. Then they became longer
 
—two days, four, six . . . Names and faces of the hospital staff became familiar. The need to stop at the information desk faded. One of the nurses in the oncology section, it turned out, had been a year behind Sheila in high school. People from the past came to visit in a depressing revival of
This Is Your Life
 
—the owner of the pharmacy in downtown Addison, several church friends, a former coworker, a few others. But no relatives. Sheila was Margaret’s only child, and her husband had passed away in ’98.

Sheila was pleased they finally moved her mother to a private room. She’d had roommates in the last three, all in worse shape. Each one was an elderly woman, and they were all deceased now. The first had been clearheaded for a few weeks, the other two in various states of delirium. Sheila was haunted by one in particular, who stared maniacally at
the ceiling and produced an endless stream of glossolalia. It wasn’t her deteriorated mental state that affected Sheila so deeply but rather the fact that no one came to see her. There were no balloons, no flowers, no cards. A forgotten soul in a world of billions. Someone from the local church had left a prayer card
 
—but then her mom received one too. So did every other patient, most likely. Then one day Sheila came in and found the bed empty, made up with fresh sheets. One of the nurses said the woman had died the night before.
With no one there to hold her hand, no doubt,
Sheila thought with a touch of anger.

She stroked her mother’s white hair, kissed her on the cheek, then sat in one of the ridiculously uncomfortable guest chairs and opened a cooking magazine she’d spotted in the lobby. No sooner had she found a recipe for sesame apricot chicken than her cell phone vibrated. Removing it from the holster, she found the following text message on the screen:

Sheila,

The guys are here with the new arc trainer and they’re setting it up. Is there anything else I need to do?

Vicki

Sheila rose from the chair and walked into the hallway before dialing. The call was answered on the second ring.

“That was quick,” Vicki said.

“I’m here at the hospital and it’s pretty quiet right now.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s fine. I asked you to let me know when they got there.”

“Do I need to tell them anything?”

“Are they actually working? Sometimes Eric’s guys need the whip cracked over their heads.”

“No, they’re doing it.” Vicki laughed. “I think they’re afraid of you.”

“That can be useful sometimes.”

“I don’t know. . . . You’re the best boss
I’ve
ever had; that’s for sure.”

“Vying for a raise again?”

“No, really. I
 
—”

“I’m just kidding. How are things going otherwise?”

“Okay.”

“Busy?”

“No more than usual, but no less, either.”

“Any new recruits?”

“Yes!” she said. “I signed up four new people this morning.
Four.
”

“That’s excellent, Vick. Terrific work.”

“And I re-upped two others.”

“Re-upping is just as good. As long as they come to
my
gyms, I don’t care how or why.”

“We’re the best.”

“Better believe it.”

“Oh, and that guy stopped in again, too. . . .”

“What guy?”

“That Doug guy.”

Sheila rolled her eyes. “Did you tell him I was out of town?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if he believed me, but he said he’d be back.”

“Lucky me.”

“He’s creepy.”

Sheila agreed, but she was also at a point in her life where she wasn’t interested in a relationship with any man.

“Okay, let me get back to Mama.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Not that great. It’s just a matter of time.”

“How are
you
holding up?”

Sheila wasn’t sure how to reply to this. She’d been through every emotion on the spectrum since the cancer had quietly entered their lives three years ago. Truth be told, she felt like a towel wrung of all moisture. It was torture to watch her mother suffer like this and to know the end of her life was mere days or even hours away. But there was still that hope, like a little flame that never burns out, for a miracle. Of course it was ridiculous now, but that wouldn’t stop her from tending it.

“I’m doing okay,” she said, more to keep the silence from winding out than anything else. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away before anyone else in the hallway noticed.

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“I know. I appreciate it.”

“Is there anything you need? Anything I can send you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Really? Honestly?”

“Honestly. Hey, she was the greatest mom I could’ve asked for. She and my dad were always there for me, gave me everything I needed, and let me find my own way when the time came. I couldn’t have asked for much more. And they really loved each other, so she had a good life too.”

“You were all very lucky.”

“We certainly were. But let me go, okay? I want to stay by her side.”

“Sure. And don’t worry about anything here. I’ve got it all under control.”

“Thanks, Vick.”

Sheila ended the call and put the phone away. As she crept back into the room, she thought about how lucky she’d been to find Vicki, too. She had more than two dozen employees, and Victoria Miller was the best of them. No formal education beyond high school, yet she had more natural business sense than any of the arrogant MBA geniuses Sheila had interviewed. Vicki was hardworking, tough, and
 
—best of all
 
—trustworthy beyond all doubt. That was something they didn’t stress much in postgrad courses, Sheila noticed.

She was just about to return to the magazine when her mother groaned and rolled her head back and forth. The oxygen mask didn’t follow
 
—the tube got caught under her arm. This caused the edge of the mask to press her nose down crookedly. Sheila hastened to fix it, and Margaret’s eyes opened. They were red-rimmed and watery, like those of a child who’d been crying.

“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice muted behind the clear plastic.

Sheila was stunned by the lucidity of her tone. They were medicating her heavily to chase off the pain. She slept most of the time, talked nonsense the rest. She usually confused the past with the present, referring to long-dead friends and family as if they were standing in the hallway. Every now and then she produced a coherent thought, but they were growing scarce.

Sheila leaned down and smiled. “Yes, Mama?”

Margaret lifted the arm with the gauzy wristband and, with surprising strength, took her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.
This came out shaky and labored, but the eyes were suddenly bright again. The abruptness of the change was unsettling.

“For what?” There was still a faint trace of the Texas accent in Sheila’s voice, in spite of not having lived here for almost twenty years.

Margaret’s eyes closed again, and she sank back onto the pillow. This simple exchange had drained her, it seemed. Sheila thought she might fall back to sleep.

Then her mother took a deep breath and swallowed to clear her throat. Her eyes reopened. “For the burden. The burden of it.”

Puzzled, Sheila studied her for a long moment. “What are you talking about?”

“This burden that I’m leaving you. I’m sorry, Sheila. I’m so sorry.”

“Mama? What burden? What do you mean?”

“Just get rid of it. Get rid of it.”

“What? Mama, I don’t underst
 
—”

“I’m sorry. . . .”

The eyes closed slowly this time. Her breathing became deep and heavy.

Margaret Baker had just two more rational moments
 
—one the next day in which she said that she loved her daughter more than anything in the world, and a second on her final day, when she asked Sheila what she thought God might have in store for her. When Sheila said she didn’t know but was sure it would be wonderful, her mother managed a weak nod before slipping into unconsciousness. Her suffering came to an end less than two hours later.