Message from Nam Read Free Page A

and students embraced, muttering incoherently about how could a thing like that happen. Walter Cronkite went on, two doctors were interviewed, and Paxton felt as though she were moving underwater. Everything seemed to have slowed down, and everything seemed to be happening at a great distance. People were crying everywhere, and Paxton could barely see as the tears coursed down her cheeks and she felt a breathlessness she had felt once before, as though someone had squeezed all the air out of her and she would never catch her breath again. It was a pain and a grief almost beyond bearing. And in an odd way, this was like losing him all over again. Her father had been fifty-seven years old when he died, and John Kennedy was only forty-six, and yet both had been cut down in the prime of their lives, filled with fire and ideas and excitement about living, both had families, both had children who loved them dearly. And Jack Kennedy would be mourned by an entire world, Carlton Andrews was only mourned by those who knew him. But it felt the same to Paxton now, and she could feel what his children must feel, the terrible grief, the loss, the sorrow, the anger. This was so terrible, so wrong, how could anyone do it? She walked blindly down the halls as she left the school, without saying a word to anyone, and she ran the half-dozen blocks to their home on Habersham, and the door to their house slammed as she flew into the front hall, still crying, her white-blond mane still flying behind her. She looked like her father, too, or as he had as a boy, with shining blond hair, and big green eyes that always seemed to be searching for answers. And she looked frighteningly pale now as she dropped her books and her bag, and hurried to the kitchen to find Queenie.
    Queenie was humming to herself as she hustled around the kitchen she loved. The copper pots shone to perfection as they hung on the racks above her head, and there was the fragrant smell of her baking. And she turned in surprise to see Paxton standing staring at her with a wild-eyed look and her lovely young face frightened and tear-stained. At that moment, Paxton was the symbol of an entire nation.
    “What happen’, child?” Queenie looked frightened as she moved her enormous bulk toward the girl she had raised and loved like no other.
    “I …” For a moment, Paxxie didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t find the words, didn’t know what to tell her. “Haven’t you watched TV today?” Queenie was addicted to the soaps, but she only shook her head and stared at Paxton.
    “No, your mom took the kitchen set to be fixed yesterday. It’s broke. And I never watch the big set in the living room.” She looked hurt at the suggestion. “Why?” She wondered if something terrible had happened in downtown Savannah … maybe Dr. George … or Mrs. Andrews … or even her own children might be affected … maybe one of those terrible civil rights demonstrations … maybe … But she was in no way prepared for what Paxton told her.
    “President Kennedy was shot.”
    “Oh, my land …” Queenie sank her enormous bulk into the nearest chair with a look of shocked horror. Her eyes moved to Paxton’s then with an unspoken question.
    “He’s dead.” Paxxie began to cry again, and then knelt next to Queenie and put her arms around her. It was like losing her father all over again. That terrible feeling of loss and despair and grief and betrayal. And Queenie held her as they both cried for a man they had never known and who had been felled so young, and for what? Why? Why had they done it? How angry could anyone be? What purpose would it serve? And why him as an example? Why a man with two small children and a young wife? Why anyone? And why someone so alive and so full of hope and promise for so many? Paxxie mourned him in Queenie’s arms, and the old black woman held her and rocked her as she had as a child, as she herself cried for a man she had never known, but believed to be