History Revisited II

The other day I posted a story from the June 8, 1968 edition of the Oakland Tribune, a story of the death of two unnamed men in Elizabeth, New Jersey. They had been waiting for the funeral train of Robert Kennedy...I continue the story here. This is fiction.

I sensed something was wrong as soon as the screen door banged shut behind me. It was quiet; far too quiet for a Friday afternoon and mom would have yelled at me for letting the door slam. I walked through the front room and turned to go to the kitchen. “Hello?” I yelled, “Anyone home?” And that was when I heard the soft sobbing in the kitchen. I opened the door.

“Mom?” “What’s going on?”

My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her head down and cradled in her arms, her thin back shuddering as she cried almost silently. As I ran to her, to comfort her, she raised her head to look at me and her eyes were wild, unfocused; tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Mom.” “What is it?” “Tell me, what’s the matter?”

She was unable to talk, her voice drowning in the sobs that only intensified as I held her in my arms.

Just then I heard the screen door swing shut again. I turned toward the door and Mrs. Myers walked in. Startled to see me, her hand flew to her chest, “Oh! Larry…we didn’t expect you for another hour. I don’t know what to say. Oh Larry, Larry…Your poor mother.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your mother…she didn’t tell you?”

“No. What’s going on? What’s the matter with mom?”

I continued to hold her, trying to comfort her while she clung to my arms, her face pressed tight to my chest.

“Oh. Oh, Larry…it’s your father. He…he died this morning.”

I heard the words. I watched Mrs. Myers lips moving as she spoke them. I knew exactly what the words meant, but I couldn’t comprehend them. It was as if my mind was blocking out the harsh reality of those words. Feeling almost stupid, I asked, “What?” What did you say?” but knowing all the while what it was that I had heard. Would she tell me something else if I asked her? Oh, please tell me something else! But no, she repeated them and I knew.

“But…how?”

“He’d gone to watch the train come through. You know…Bobby Kennedy’s funeral train. It was gonna come through town today and he wanted to see it. Said it was history.”

I vaguely remembered the conversation this morning. Dad saying he was going to see if he could sneak away from the shop long enough to see the funeral train as it headed south to Washington. “Larry.” he said, “Wanna come with me? It’s a once in a lifetime experience.” “And it would honor Bobby.” he added.

“Yeah. OK. I remember him saying something about it…but what happened?”

“Now I’m not really sure. But the policeman, when he came to tell us…he said there had been a crowd and that another train was coming through and that was when it happened.”

‘What? What happened?” I struggled with the question. Needing to know and yet dreading the answer.

“It…it was that train. It hit your father, Larry. Himself and another, an older man it was, they were killed.” And then she began to recite every single thing that the police had told her and my mother, as if she could somehow remove the painful words from her own memory by giving them to me.

As I listened to Mrs. Myers I tried to concentrate on what I knew to be real, to hold on to my mother and try to soothe her. I heard the ticking of the kitchen clock and it seemed louder than ever. I took refuge from the painful words and listened only to the clock while I tried to make sense of it all.

But, in a few moments, the banging of the screen door announced another visitor and it was soon a flood of ladies from the neighborhood, all gathering in our kitchen, prying my mother away from me to comfort her. Food appeared and mom and I were urged to eat. More people arrived and more hugs were shared while tears flowed.
Looking across the crowded room, I could see that mom was going to be OK. Mrs. Myers and Mrs. Lefkovitz were with her, one on each side and they were doing their best to comfort her. 4 or 5 other ladies were in attendance as well, hoping to be of some service to their friend, my mother.

Later, that evening, and after most of the neighbors had gone, I sat alone on the front porch. Mrs. Myers was with my mom and getting her ready for bed. Mrs. Myers was going to sleep over tonight, sleeping on the couch downstairs. “Now, Larry, don’t you worry.” she had told me, “I’ll be right there if you or your mother needs me.”

For now, the house was mercifully quiet and I had time to absorb all that had happened that day. My father had died. A family of three was now a family of two. Why? I kept repeating that question to myself, as if it might be answered if I persevered. But no answer came. Cars on the street illumined the front porch briefly in their passing and their occupants might have wondered, briefly, about a young man sitting on the steps with his head in his hands, but I was oblivious to them in my grief.

I felt that it was a story that needed telling. (I hated that too brief of a story in the Tribune.) No, the story isn't over.