The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (15 page)

Bah, humbug. Grumble, grumble, toil and trouble!

I'm looking forward to the Thanksgiving break. Tomorrow's the holiday and I'll be spending it with Martin. It's the first time in quite a while that I've spent Thanksgiving with a man. We'll have dinner at my house. I've already bought a turkey and the ingredients to make stuffing. I just need to run out after work and buy some vegetables and cranberries.

Woodlands is quiet today. The kitchen staff plans to prepare Thanksgiving dinner for the residents. Martin wants to come by and sit with his mother when they serve the food. I told him that shouldn't be a problem with our schedule, and I'd be happy to join him.

I went to check on Judy and found her standing by her dresser, studying herself in the mirror. Her right hand was lightly caressing her cheek.

“Good afternoon, Judy, how are we doing today?”

She slowly turned her head and smiled at me. “Fine,” she said, and then she focused on the mirror again. I went and stood beside her.

“Who's that pretty young lady in the mirror?” I asked.

Judy smiled wider and shook her head. “I don't know!”

“That's you, Judy.” I pointed to a photo on the dresser. “And that's you a few years ago.” It must have been taken in the seventies.
The photo had the kind of color saturation common in those days. It revealed a much younger Judy Talbot standing by a tree in front of the house in Arlington Heights. She was very beautiful then. She is still a striking woman. Unfortunately, Alzheimer's steals so much of what makes a woman pretty. Judy now looks much older than her seventy-three years, and she has the mind of a four-year-old. It's so tragic.

She scanned the other framed pictures. “Where's my son?”

I pointed to a recent photo of Martin. “Right here. This is Martin.”

Judy wrinkled her brow. “No, that's not…” Then she spied an early black-and-white shot from the sixties in which Martin was less than ten. Judy picked up the frame and said, “This is her.” Alzheimer's patients often mixed up gender usage.

“Yes, that's him. That's Martin when he was little. He's all grown up now.” I pointed to the recent pic. “This is Martin now. He comes to see you nearly every day.”

“He does?”

“Of course he does. He'll come see you tomorrow around dinnertime. It's Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

“Thanksgiving?”

“Yep, and we're having turkey and dressing. Won't that be nice?”

She actually licked her lips and nodded. I was pleased to see that the connection from her brain to her saliva glands wasn't broken.

“You want me to call one of the nurses so you can take your walk?”

She replaced the photo and moved toward the rocking chair. “Not now.” She carefully lowered herself in the chair and started to rock.

I thought Judy was actually fairly lucid today. She had answered my questions with appropriate responses. I decided to try something. “Judy, Martin showed me a button that used to belong to you. It was
a presidential campaign button for John F. Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson from 1960. Do you remember that?”

Judy continued to rock but turned her head to me. “What?”

“John F. Kennedy. Do you remember when he ran for president? You must have supported him.”

She nodded and said, “I was a Kennedy Girl.”

That threw me for a loop. A
what?
“What was that, Judy?”

No answer, just a smile.

“What's a Kennedy Girl? Did you meet Kennedy?”

She nodded. “He knew my name.”

What?
Was a “Kennedy Girl” one of JFK's many alleged girlfriends?

Oh. “So you did meet him?”

Judy's expression was dreamy. Apparently, she had latched on to a memory and relished it for a moment, but then her face abruptly changed. Her brow creased and the smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed and she whispered, “They tried to kill him.”

I sat on the edge of the bed by the rocker. “You're right, Judy. They
did
kill him. In Dallas. Do you remember that?”

But she shook her head. “No, they didn't. I saved him.”

She continued to stare at me intently. Whatever fantasy was going through her head was very real to her. I decided not to pursue it.

“I tell you what, Judy, I'm going to get Jane and see if she's free to walk with you now. It'd be good for you to get some exercise. You're looking pretty good. I noticed your blood pressure is getting better, too. That medication you're taking is helping.”

I'm sure she didn't understand any of that, but I got up and told her I'd be right back. Jane was busy with another patient, so I tried Eric, one of the staff assistants. He couldn't get away from his current task either, so I went back to Judy's room—and found her slumped in the chair, unconscious. She was definitely not merely asleep.

“Judy?”

I rushed to her and immediately checked her vitals. They weren't good, so I picked up the phone and called a code blue.

There was no question about it. Judy had suffered a stroke.

J
UNE 10, 1960

Today, on my day off, I went to the Democratic Party's New York headquarters on Park Avenue South and volunteered. I decided to go for it. I figured there wasn't much else in my life at the moment. All I had was my work at the gym. No boyfriend, no hobbies (well, not the kind of hobbies you normally think of as “hobbies,” ha ha), and no circle of friends with whom I could gossip and shop like other normal young women in the city. I'm a misfit, no question about it. My only real female friend is Lucy, and now she's married and I don't see her as often as I did. I still work out and practice my martial arts, but that's it. As for the Black Stiletto, well, I haven't put on the outfit since that last night in Chinatown. I'm not sure why. The weather is nice—hot, in fact—and very conducive for night prowling. I just haven't had the urge lately.

So I thought that immersing myself in a new activity would be a good thing. I've been following John Kennedy's progress to win the candidacy—he just won the California primary—and I want to support him.

The place was busy and noisy! People were outside on the sidewalk handing out literature and registering citizens to vote. Inside, young men and women in their twenties ran here and there carrying
stacks of paper or boxes or whatever. I could feel a definite energy in the air that was invigorating and exciting.

They put me to work right away. I agreed to hand out flyers and pamphlets in my neighborhood and spend some evenings registering folks to vote. Today, though, I stuffed envelopes in a room with ten other people. I sat next to a very nice couple and talked with them the whole time. Mitch Perry and Alice Graves. I suppose they're in their late twenties. Mitch might be in his thirties. He told me he's in “investments,” and that his family came from Spain. I didn't think Perry sounded like a Spanish name, but he said his family had been “homogenized” over generations. Alice, on the other hand, looks like she has Latin blood. She said she's from Florida and thinks her ancestors were from South America. They're not married, but I got the impression they live together. When they mentioned going to clubs in Greenwich Village, I said I liked going to Café Wha? and listening to beatniks read poetry. Mitch and Alice also often go there, too, and they have friends in the Village. Mitch and Alice support Kennedy and hope he'll get the nomination, so we immediately bonded and became friends. A lot of people are for Humphrey, and there are even more for Adlai Stevenson. Lyndon Johnson (a fellow Texan!) is a wild card, but he hasn't declared if he's running or not. The Democratic National Convention is next month in California, so that's when we'll know for whom we'll ultimately be campaigning.

At any rate, I felt welcomed and wanted. It also gave me a sense of patriotic pride that I'm doing something for my country.

Who would have thought?

J
UNE 19, 1960

I'm writing this at 12:30 a.m., but it's really still Saturday night to me.

I just got home from meeting a
man
at a party!

More on that in a minute. I haven't written, dear diary, because
I've been so
busy
. And that's a good thing, because I'm also having
fun
! I
love
working for the committee, and I've been doing more than what is asked. I like the people there and I think they like me. I've found myself suddenly in the middle of a group of…
friends
?

Besides Mitch and Alice, who I see a lot of these days, there's Chip Rangel, who makes all of us laugh. He probably weighs 280–300 pounds. He cracks jokes all the time and is always in a good mood. It's infectious. I believe he has a crush on me, poor thing. Because of that I don't get too chummy with him. Karen Williams, who's in her 40s, I guess, is a schoolteacher and she plays that same role at headquarters. It's become a running joke that whenever Karen tells us to do something, Chip says in a low voice, “Who made
her
boss?” Now he mumbles it every time she comes into the room, before she even speaks, and it's
hilarious
. I struggle to keep from busting out laughing and making a fool of myself. There's Mr. Patton, who's in charge, and Mr. Dudley and Mr. O'Donnell, Mrs. Bernstein, and Mrs. Terrano, and a whole bunch of other people. They're all nice and enthusiastic and fun to be around, even Karen when she's not worried about stuff getting done in time.

As we get closer to the national convention, things have become crazy. Everything's well organized, I'll give them that. It's just that there's so
much
to do and there aren't enough volunteers. I tried to get Lucy and Peter to volunteer, but they passed.

What do I do? We sell pins for a dollar or any donation, stuff envelopes and mail them, we deliver signs and literature around the city, we register people to vote, and try to talk intelligently to pedestrians who ask us about the Democrats. Most everyone I've talked to on the street is nice and stops to listen for a moment and maybe asks a question or two; others are downright rude and say nasty things as they walk on. I really didn't realize how divisive everyone is over politics before I started doing this. Most of my life I didn't pay much attention to Republicans or Democrats or politicians in general. Only recently have I discovered what a
hot button
it can be
for some people. Geez! One guy started yelling at me that the Democrats were Commies and that I should “go back to Russia.” All I'd said to him was, “Excuse me sir, are you registered to vote?”

Since none of us know who the candidate is yet, it makes our jobs a little tougher. On the other hand, there'll be a broad choice in Los Angeles. Actually there's a big disparity among the volunteers on who should get the nomination. There are quite a few for Kennedy, but also a bunch for Stevenson and Symington. The younger people seem to be more attracted to Kennedy. I think his campaign is the best. His younger brother Robert is running it from Massachusetts. He's some kind of hot-shot lawyer with the Justice Department.

After we argue about the best candidate, we usually get into the debate of who the running mates will be. Kennedy hasn't picked one yet.

So now that's my life outside of the Second Avenue Gym.

Back to
tonight
. I've gone out with Mitch and Alice a couple of times to Café Wha? and listened to music and poetry readings. We watched Kennedy on
The Jack Paar Show
the other night at their apartment on E. 52nd Street between Lexington and Third. Whatever Mitch does in “investments” must be pretty nice, ‘cause I can't believe what a nice place they have. It's a very nice space on the sixth and highest floor of a big building. I didn't ask them, but it looked like they'd just moved in. The furniture was sparse and there were no decorations. But they have a great television!

Tonight Mitch and Alice invited me to a party in the Village and at first I balked because I didn't want to be a third wheel. Alice said she and Mitch love having me around and that I'm “fun.” She also said I needed to meet more men and find someone I like so we can double date. So I went.

The party was in an apartment on Christopher Street. It was the same block where Studio Tokyo used to be. The building is still there, but since the fire it's been boarded up and under repair. It was the first time I'd been over there since it happened. It made me miss
Soichiro. I must remember to give his daughter, Isuzu, a call sometime.

I have never been to a party like this one! The hosts looked like beatniks. Ron and Pam, a couple. He had a mustache and hair on his chin and she wore sunglasses indoors. They were both dressed in black. There were other people who looked like beatniks, too, the kind of crowd I'd see at Café Wha? and the Village Vanguard. And there were two Negro couples, too! The place was small, like many New York apartments. It was just a one bedroom. I'd say there were 25 people or so in that living room, kitchen, and bedroom. There was no way all of us could've fit just in the living room, so we spread out into the three spaces. There was wine and vodka and bourbon and beer and Coke, and a lot of smoking—the apartment was
full
of smoke. Some of it was that marijuana stuff. A tiny group was using the bedroom for that, and I didn't go in there. It made me a little nervous being in an apartment with it because it's illegal. I've seen people smoke it at jazz shows, though.

I thought the food was interesting. I'd never had stuffed mushrooms before. The stems had been removed and the caps were stuffed with bread crumbs and parsley and cheese and I don't know what else. Someone made a big pot of spaghetti and we ate it off of paper plates. Jazz music played from the hi-fi and there was a lot of chatter. People talked about politics, movies, art, poetry, books, theatre, and music. I'm afraid I might have come off too dumb. I like all that stuff, but when I mentioned Elvis Presley I got a bunch of dirty looks. Alice stood up for me, though, and admitted liking Elvis, too. Most of the people there were for Kennedy, so that gave me points.