"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald by Douglas Brode Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œA 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.
    â€œHow’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.