The Curse of the USS Annie Oakley

By Joe Terry

When she learns of the warship’s special designation, the First Lady, LADY BIRD JOHNSON casts a curse on the USS Annie Oakley and all who will sail on her. A short while earlier she gave the warship her name, smashing a bottle of Champagne off her hull.
The saga of The USS Annie Oakley opens with DANIEL KELLY vowing to give his life to combating injustice when he gets news of the assassination of his godfather, President John F Kennedy. Believing communism is behind the killing, he makes an impromptu vow, dedicating his life to combating the purveyors of evil. In time, so as to best advance his pledge, he joins the Navy to become an aviation pilot.
The Vietnam War is at a crucial juncture when the USS Annie Oakley comes into service with the blessing of the Commander-in-Chief, the President of the USA. The war-ship is the flagship of the Gay Navy, a covert force, conceived out of desperation during the crucial conflict with communism. From the outset, her Captain has his share of on-going problems, interpersonal and operational, but in adversity, he has the skill to steer a steady course.
During a rest and relaxation visit to Hong Kong, Daniel Kelly, now a Skyhawk attack pilot attached to the USS Annie Oakley; meets and falls for a beautiful singer CHRISTINA ALZONA. Even though their liaison is short-lived, their relationship has far-reaching repercussions. Daniel’s meeting and association with her is the trigger that changes his one-time enthusiastic attitude to the War, his Country and the Navy.
Back at Yankee Station, the US Navy’s constantly moving area of operation off Vietnam, Daniel agonizes over issues of morality, justice and injustice, good and evil. His reflections on his Catholic and Navy indoctrination play on his mind, having mainly negative effects. He struggles with his conscience, struggles with fighting the enemy, and struggles with the morality of the mass killing of civilians. The changes in his outlook have serious consequences for his very existence, and in time leads to his demise. In his final tormented act, goaded on by his obnoxious squadron commander, he deliberately crashes his fully armed war-plane into the superstructure of his beloved carrier. Only then, is he at peace.
As the wreck of USS Annie Oakley smolders off Vietnam, the North Vietnamese make the most of the holocaust. In a propaganda coup, North Vietnam’s national radio station English-speaking announcer claims that one of her country’s Russian built MiG aircraft has penetrated the air defenses of Yankee Station, successfully attacking the USS Annie Oakley.
The President of the United States has difficulty in dealing with the demise of the World’s most modern conventional aircraft carrier, sinking in the Gulf of Tonkin. In his final year in office, he grapples with the fall-out from the fiasco. In order to conceal the existence of the flagship of the Gay Navy, he organizes a cover-up.
Meanwhile, Christina Alzona, pregnant with Daniel Kelly’s child, clutches onto her religion faith and to her faith in SAMMY WANG, the enterprising concierge at Hong Kong’s Orient Hotel. When Daniel’s father refuses to acknowledge that Christina is expecting his grandchild, Sammy brokers a financial settlement with him.
Putting together the pieces of her shattered life in the final stages of her pregnancy, with the help of Sammy, Christina makes plans to return to the Philippines, her native country. On the voyage home on board the cruise liner the SS Oldany, she goes into labor and gives birth.
The story has a heart-warming ending in Manila, where Christina’s infant baby girl is about to be christened.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Terry
• Release date: Dec 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310227073

Joe Terry

Joe Terry is the author of two novels: The Curse of the USS Annie Oakley (Published 2014) and The Undoing of Luke O’Reilly (Published 2014).Authors who have influenced his writing include; American novelists; F. Scott Fitzgerald, Philip Roth, Cormac McCarthy, John O'Hara, Harper Lee, J.D. Salinger and John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway; closer to home, George Orwell, James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, Joseph Conrad, John McGahern and William Trevor; and last but not least, Chinese writers, Han Suyin and Yiyun Li.Within earshot and view of the Celtic Sea, the second born of a family of ten, Joe came into this World in his parent’s farmstead bedroom in the parish of Cloyne, County Cork, Ireland.A month after the first ever US presidential TV debate in 1960, having purchased a third-class one-way ticket, Joe boarded the MV Innisfallen at Penrose Quay in Cork City for the nine hours voyage to Fishguard in Wales. He had not seen the TV debate between Kennedy and Nixon. He had yet to set eyes on a TV set.Coming from rural Ireland, the “bog”, even though he had never been in a bog, London was an eye-opener. Not everybody made the sign of the cross passing a Church, not everybody went to Church, Confessions were infrequent, not like in Ireland where Catholics were expected to confess their sins once a month; and under the threat of a mortal sin at least once a year. In London, not all men and women living together were husband and wife, as was the case in the parish of his birth. Many lived with other’s spouses. Many were divorced, legally separated; no longer bound to remain as a couple for the rest of their lives through sickness and sorrow. Gangsters, knuckledusters, teddy boys, winkle picker shoes and drainpipe trousers were all new to him.During the next ten years, Joe lived in London, Essex, Middlesex, Shropshire, Wilshire, Gloucester, Norfolk, Isle of Lewis Outer Hebrides and Hong Kong from where he travelled to Borneo and Jahore in Malaysia, Singapore and Vietnam.Throughout his life Joe has had a keen interest in sport and outdoor activities participation; Gaelic football, hurling, squash, swimming, walking and athletics.He a winner of Hong Kong Amateur Athletic Association annual open cross-country and 5000 meters track championships. In Hong Kong, as mountain rescue volunteer, a particular occurrence had a profound effect on him when his team having rescued a group of deaf and mute children from a fog covered mountain, the appreciative rescued group, some time later, presented his mountain rescue team with a token award and sang a song of appreciation.Whilst an emigrant, Joe worked as a bartender, truck delivery assistant, hardware shop assistant, financial investments representative, interiors supplies representative, aerospace systems operator, and heating and ventilation fitter.Since returning to live In Ireland, and before retiring, he has worked as a ship building pipe fitter, and mostly as a self employed heating plumbing installations contractor; finally as a bathrooms supplies retail outlet proprietor.Joe now lives in Blarney, County Cork Ireland

Book preview

PART ONE

DANIEL KELLY’S IMPROMPTU VOW

Chapter 1

Massachusetts - November 1963

Leaning back on a hardwood garden bench, overshadowed by Gasson Hall’s clock tower, Daniel Kelly glanced at his Rolex. Accepting he was no Rock Hudson, his past encounters, mostly blind dates rarely lasting long, he adopted cautious optimism everything would unfold as he and Laura had agreed. Under the grey overcast sky and leafless trees, he zipped up his fur-lined leather jacket, and with his fingers, he combed back his dark red crew-cut.

Holding a transistor radio to her ear, Laura sauntered towards him wearing sneakers, denim jeans and jacket over a woollen sweater, keeping out the winter cold. ‘I had to finish off something,’ she said, sitting on the bench ‘before it went out of my head.’

‘You weren’t delayed for very long,’ he said, sliding his hand under her shoulder length hair. ‘It’s a relief getting away from all that studying.’

‘But I’m glad of this Saturday cramming,’ she said, nodding her head, ‘you agree?’

‘Right on. I’ve no appetite for all-nighters on the run up to the semester exams, less than a month away. Since we met, we’ve neglected our studies, gotten lackadaisical.’

‘Agree,’ she said, ‘balancing the importance of studying and getting to know one another we fell between two stools.’

‘We’ve no wish to flunk our exams’ he said, taking pleasure in her flirtatious smile.

‘Just one more study session for today and we’ll be on our way. You all set for our date?’

‘I sure am,’ she said, ‘an excellent occasion to lift the spirits, winter days getting shorter, weather deteriorating. My overnight travel bag is waiting patiently. And you?’

‘All set,’ he said studying her contented expression, ‘more than I’ll ever be.’

She rested her hand on his knee. ‘I’m looking forward to staying the night in your home, get some idea how the rich live.’

‘Now that you’ve at last decided, I’m more than thrilled.’

Laura held her transistor against her ear, tuned to a station playing mainly pop music, Elvis Presley in particular. Soon, she was bouncing to the music of the King of Rock and Roll as if the King himself was seated beside her.

Daniel heard the closing lyrics of It’s Now or Never fading, followed by the intro music and echoed words of Elvis Presley; Are you lonesome tonight - Do you miss me tonight? He glanced at his bouncing companion, thinking, I won’t be lonesome tonight.

Abruptly, the resonance of Are You Lonesome Tonight? stopped mid-song and after a brief pause, Daniel vaguely heard a male voice making a sombre announcement.

Without warning, Laura started shrieking; falling to the ground, throwing her hands and legs about, as if having an epileptic fit.

Daniel contemplated if she suffered from a medical disorder, without him knowing. Could he handle this sort of thing? Did he possess the necessary compassion? Not knowing what he should do, he knelt beside her on the lifeless winter grass. ‘What’s the matter Laura?’

She was throwing herself about, frothing from her mouth and nostrils, like a wild animal gone berserk.

A hand touched Daniel’s shoulder. ‘I’m a student nurse,’ a female voice said. ‘If I may, I’ll see how I can help?’

He moved aside, letting the nurse squat next to Laura.

The student nurse held Laura’s jaw, restricting her from shaking her head. ‘Hush, it’s all right, calm now,’ the she said, striving to bring Laura down from her high state of hysteria.

Laura went on screeching. ‘He’s dead—he’s dead. Somebody shot the President.’

‘It’s true,’ a male undergraduate, now holding Laura’s transistor to his ear, shouted. ‘The President is dead. Somebody shot John F Kennedy.’

‘Oh my God,’ Daniel said, his voice raised, the shock hitting him like a rock, ‘my Godfather.’ As an infant, John F Kennedy, a close family friend, had sponsored him when christened. He and Laura had never discussed this, nor had he mentioned to her his parent’s and the Kennedy’s association.

Mayhem erupted on the lawn, students screaming, hugging and consoling one another; many aimlessly meandering around. Students, listening to transistors, drifted into a stupor, as if visually impaired. Others lay on the damp grass, faces cupped in the palms of their hands, many wailing aloud, others in silence.

Daniel, hiding his fear, struggled to keep his composure. He moved closer to the student nurse comforting Laura. ‘Anything I can do?’

‘If you help me get her to Cushing Hall for medical attention—that would be great.’

Daniel bent over Laura, lifting her, one arm under her shaking legs, the other around her back.

Clasping her hands behind his neck and holding on, she screamed. ‘My God—not the President—my head will burst.’

In the first-aid room, a nurse firmly held Laura while a physician injected a sedative into her backside. She swallowed tablets with sips of water. The white pallor of her skin, the colour of death, contrasted with her dark blue denim outfit.

Slowly, the sedatives took effect and Laura’s wailing ceased; but not her sobbing.

Daniel waited until she became composed, and when she did, he placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘You okay now?’

‘Such unfairness,’ she said, the hysteria gone from her voice, ‘John F Kennedy, of all people.’

‘Need freshening up,’ he said, ‘in the restroom?’

Laura nodded. ‘Sure … I’ll do that.’

‘Okay then,’ Daniel said, ‘meet me outside afterwards.’

Unsure of how he should act from here on, he went to the men’s room, his heart thumping, his rational mind immobilized. With the help of a mirror, he checked himself over. Ignoring the grass and soil scuffs marks on his pull-on ankle boots; he dusted down his Wranglers and fur-lined leather jacket. Waiting outside the restrooms, the weight of uncertainty on his shoulders, his mind went back to John Kennedy’s and his family’s friendship. He pictured the photograph of his christening taking place in Boston’s Cathedral of the Holy Cross, hanging on his parent’s parlour wall. The picture showed his godmother holding him in a white christening gown over the baptismal font. A bespectacled priest was pouring water over his head, erasing original sin from his soul, making him one of the chosen, one of God’s children, a member of the Catholic Church. On the monochrome photograph, John F Kennedy, wearing his US Navy Ensign’s uniform, had a hand on his shoulder. Daniel had often thought, for as long as his godfather lived, he was safe, protected from evil. Now that he had been slain, who would protect him from here on? A susceptibility set in, bottled-up grief affecting him as much it was affecting Laura. What kind of person would she think of him if he showed his fragile emotion, breaking down, wailing, like others outside Gasson Hall? Forcing self-control, he would show how brave he was, how tough he was, what a real grown up he was.

Laura, returning from the restroom, came towards him. He studied her paleness. Having no idea of her mindset, he stood close to her and placed his arm around her waist. Should he explain the relationship between his family and the Kennedy’s? He hesitated, inhaling deeply. ‘I don’t know if this is the time to mention this,’ he said, ‘but John F Kennedy was my godfather.’

‘You never mentioned.’

‘My Dad and the Kennedy’s have been close friends for many years.’

She clasped his hands in hers. ‘I’m real sorry—how I feel for you.’

Appreciating her concern, he lightly kissed her cheek.

‘I’d never have guessed you were that well connected.’

‘Connections mean so much to my Dad. But me, I take everything for granted.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like being a rich man’s only son—spoilt. But that’s not simple. My Dad’s a hard taskmaster. He wants me successful in my chosen profession, and when the time comes, to take over his booming business.’

‘My parents also are hard taskmasters,’ she said, ‘but not well-off. I work my butt off selling burgers to pay college fees.’

‘I’ll call a taxi,’ he said, ‘take you to South Station bus terminal?

‘For heaven’s sake, what for,’ she said, her voice raised, her puffed face smiling as if nobody had died from a gunshot in the back of the head. ‘What about our arrangement, agreed already?’

‘You mean … you still want to stay in my home for the night?’

She pressed her soft lips to his cheek. ‘A promise is a promise. I’m coming. You need me in this difficult time for you.’

‘When we get to my home, I can show you the photograph of my christening, John F Kennedy acting as my sponsor. Of course, I’m thrilled you’re coming along. Your support means a great deal to me.’

‘I’ll just go to my dorm,’ she said, ‘collect my overnight bag. I won’t take long.’

Waiting for Laura, Daniel inclined against the external wall of her residence hall, his mind in a contemplative trance. His teeth were chattering, not from the evening chill, but from angst brought on by the shock of John F Kennedy’s assassination. He considered if Laura had recovered enough so that they would enjoy their date.

In a while, he heard the click-clack of stilettos coming towards him. ‘Wow,’ he said, admiring her bouffant hair style, red lipstick, false eyelashes, a body clinging pant-suit and an open A-line coat. Like a catwalk model, she strode confidently, her overnight bag hanging from a shoulder. ‘You look a million dollars Laura. I’ll take your valise.’ He held her hand. ‘Let’s catch a cab.’

On the twenty minutes taxi ride, they sat in silence holding hands. The driver continually kept changing radio stations, all reporting aspects of John F Kennedy’s assassination.

At the bottom of the steps leading to the front door of Daniel’s home in Louisburg Square, they got out of the taxi. Daniel handed a twenty dollar bill to the driver. ‘Keep the change buddy.’ The taxi moved on.

Daniel glanced at his Rolex. ‘Time’s getting on,’ he said, taking note of the fading daylight. Laura followed him up the flight of steps to the front door. He turned the key on the polished brass plate and stepped aside, allowing Laura to pass him into the hall. Following her and shutting the door, he turned towards her. ‘Welcome to the Kelly residence. We’re on our own.’

‘You mean you’re in this manor house on your own?’ she said, looking around at the plush interior, the period furniture and paintings, the central heating system warming her. ‘I expected to meet your parents here.’

Taking off his jacket, he hung it on the hall stand. ‘They should have been, but they’ve gone to Ireland.’

‘Ireland? You never mentioned.’

‘I meant to let you know early on today, but events came in the way. My parents went to Ireland because of a sudden family bereavement … my father’s sister.’

‘What happened?’

‘The harbour master in Ballinacurra, where Dad is from, found my Aunt’s body facing down in the mud in the Ownacurra tidal river. Here, let me take your coat.’

‘Dreadful,’ she said, ‘any inkling as to how she came to be in the river?

‘Yes and no. An enquiry deemed she died of misadventure.’

‘Mind if I ask, what are your thoughts on the matter?’

‘Many reasons may have caused her death. At fifty-two, she had never married, never had any relationships. At any rate, she wasn’t suitable for marriage, suffered from irrational anxiety; in and out of institutions all her life.’

‘Sorry,’ Laura said, ‘sorry about your family’s sad loss.’

‘Appreciate your concern,’ Daniel said, a blush coming on his face. ‘In my father’s family that particular infirmity turns up in every generation, some strain I guess.’

‘Sad,’ she said, ‘such unhappiness everywhere.’ Her eyes were still bloodshot from the effects of weeping for an age on learning of the President’s assassination. ‘When are they due back … your parents?’

‘Not for a few weeks. Of course, they will miss my late aunt’s funeral as Dad doesn’t fly. They’ve gone by liner to Cobh, in the south of the country. Despite missing the memorial service and burial, they will be of considerable family support. My parent’s families are closely-knit.’ Daniel tried making sense of the mixed emotions showing on Laura’s face. ‘Should you need the bathroom,’ he said, pointing to the stairs, ‘it’s on the first flight, turn left, then right at the end of the corridor. I’ll get the chow started. The cook’s on vacation. And it’s the housekeeper’s day off. She won’t arrive back from her brother’s place in Rhode Island until tomorrow. Hamburger and fries okay for you?’

‘Right now,’ Laura said, ‘I have little appetite. But sure, burger and fries will be great.’

Daniel, concerned for his guest, deliberately pushed the demise of John F Kennedy out of his mind. In spite of the President’s assassination, he expected they would enjoy the meal he was about to prepare, and later, enjoy the intimacy of each other. Admiring Laura mounting the stairs he wolf-whistled. As if in a state of amnesia, she disregarded his teasing gesture.

Prior to preparing the meal that would kick-start his intimacy with Laura, he got out of his ankle-boots and put on a pair of sneakers.

*

Time to relax, Daniel thought, yearning to get comfortably close to Laura, unwind in preparation for the night ahead, watching TV, or listening to music. He glanced across the dining room table. ‘Did you like the cuisine?’ he asked of the meal.

‘Tasty,’ she said, ‘you are a super fast-food cook.’ She stood up and started tidying the table.

‘Leave the dishes for the housekeeper,’ he said, leaning over and touching her arm. ‘She’ll be here sometime tomorrow. At any rate, those servants got little to do … easily earned bucks.’

‘Whatever you think is best.’

He walked around the table and took her hand. ‘We’ll go to the parlour.’

‘Okay, whatever you suggest.’

In the parlour, he turned on the television. He sat on the sofa and slipping off his sneakers, he gestured with an open hand. Laura sat next to him. He pulled over a leather ottoman, positioning it between them. He raised his legs onto the ornate footstool, hoping Laura would do the same. Her stilettos remained on the thick pile carpet, her knees together pointing away from him. Should he offer her a cocktail and have Bourbon himself? Should he place his arm across her shoulders, draw her towards him? Should he push familiarity? Not just yet. He took her hand in his.

Both of them viewing the repetitive reporting of the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy on the TV had them uneasy. The news item dominating the evening broadcasts, the image of the dead President’s blood-stained head on his wife’s lap in the rear seat of the presidential limousine continued popping up on the screen.

That evening, of all evenings, Daniel’s preference of viewing would not have been the subject of sudden wanton death, especially the death of the President. He had planned on something lighter; a re-run of Gone with the Wind or Citizen Kane would have done or an option of listening to a selection of music on his stereo radio phonograph. Still, he and his guest keep on witnessing the grim details and commentaries of John F Kennedy’s untimely death. In particular he felt duty bound to show respect on the passing of a close family friend, his godfather. A large framed photograph of the late John F Kennedy and his father shaking hands dominated other photographs on the mantelpiece. Now and again Laura hiccupped, only ceasing when he gently stroked her hair.

‘The same details all over,’ he said after the ten o’clock news, ‘nothing new.’ If they had any chance of getting any meaningful pleasure from the night, he decided they should get away from the TV. Irrespective of all that had happened in the last number of hours, he remained confident what they had planned would unfold. ‘Best if I turn the TV off.’

Laura pursed her lips and nodded agreement. When he pressed the power button, she stared at the fading screen, her expression joyless, prompting Daniel to get quickly away from the association of violence.

He leaned over, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you your sleep-over accommodation.’

‘Sure,’ she said getting up from the sofa.

He stood next to her, his hand patting her lower back. ‘I’ll bring your valise along.’

On the first landing, they sauntered along the corridor’s deep-pile carpet, his arm keeping them close together.

Inside the house guest’s suite, he placed her overnight bag on one of the bedside lockers. ‘You wish to go to the bathroom’ he said, gently brushing his lips on the side of her cheek, ‘perhaps for a warm shower?’

‘That’ll be great,’ she said, touching the back of her bouffant hairstyle. ‘And I should let this down. I won’t be long.’

‘I’ll go and turn off the house lights,’ he said, ‘make sure we’re bolted in. Just because we’re in Beacon Hill, doesn’t mean robbers aren’t at hand. Some of Boston’s leading hoodlums reside in this neighbourhood.’

‘No rush,’ she said.

In his bathroom, Daniel undressed, got into the stall and enjoyed a hot shower. He towelled off and put on his silk Jordan Marsh dressing robe. Looking into the mirror, he Brylcreemed his hair and combed it into a crew-cut style. He dabbed Old Spice on his face and started back to the house guests’ suite.

Lightly knocking on the door, he pushed it open, went in and closed it behind him. He stepped towards the thin wedges of light coming through the window drapes. With their tasselled ropes, he tied back the satin fabric, letting in the warm glow from the street lighting.

When the bathroom door opened, and the light went out Laura tip-toed to the ornate king-size bed, her hair flicked out touching her shoulders.

‘You look stunning Laura,’ he said, studying her letting her negligee fall on the carpet, exhilaration running through his mind and body.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘for your kind comment.’ She eased back the covers and sliding into the bed, flicking her long hair on the pillow, she pulled the covers over her body.

Daniel hung his robe on the bed post, and getting in beside her, he got the scent of her freshly applied perfume. He propped his upper body on an elbow and leaning towards her, their lips met and lingered. ‘As well as looking stunning,’ he whispered, tentatively touching her, ‘you feel stunning.’

‘All right,’ she said.

Daniel had difficulty in making out if she had asked if he was all right, or indicating that she was alright. Concerned for her apparent hesitancy, he whispered, ‘Am I moving too fast?’ His lips touching her cheek, he tasted her saline tears. ‘What’s the matter Laura?’

‘I’m upset,’ she said, angst in her voice. ‘I can’t imagine any human shooting another through the brain, killing him in cold blood. I loved Jack Kennedy.’ Unable to conceal her emotion, her sobbing escalated.

‘I’ll fetch a towel,’ Daniel said. He glided out of the bed and got into his dressing robe.

Inside the bathroom, he turned on the hot tap. He grabbed a hand towel and placed a corner if it under the flowing water.

Back in the bedroom, approaching the bed, he could see the droplets on Laura’s cheeks, shimmering from the glow of the street lighting. He sat on the side of the bed and leaned over her. ‘It’s all right.’ Gently, he swabbed her eye sockets and cheeks with the damp towel.

‘Sorry,’ she said, stroking her delicate fingers over his lips.

‘You shouldn’t be,’ he replied.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, turning away from him. ‘I can’t help the way I am.’ She pulled the bed covers over her head as if hiding, escaping.

‘Don’t feel sorry,’ he said. Getting out on the carpet, he let his robe slide off. He got in between the sheets and lay on his back staring at the dimly-lit ceiling, his mind searching. In a while, he could hear Laura evenly snoring. Grief and emptiness coming in his heart, his eyes misting over, an itchy lump developed in his throat. Profound loneliness came over him. He drifted into in a sea of confusion, rage dominating his thoughts; rage at the evil behind the President’s assassination, rage at the evil emanating from communism and the threat of communism to international order. Somehow, he would address the injustice of the unlawful killing. He would not stand idly by; he would do something about the carnage at Dallas, John F Kennedy’s death. Sometime in the future, he would avenge the death of his father’s friend. He would major in Law and become a public prosecutor in a State where capital crime carried the death penalty. He would hunt down and apprehend those who helped the man who pulled the trigger, ending the President’s life. He would become a high court judge and sentence the likes of the person who shot JFK to be executed by an electric chair—a gas chamber—a hanging noose or lethal injection. For as long as I live, I swear I will give my life to combating the purveyors of evil, until my dying breath.

*

Next morning, Daniel decided to put yesterday’s negative experiences behind him, act bravely seeing Laura off. He eased his un-rested body from under the bed covers, leaving Laura asleep. He put on his robe, and almost silently, closed the door going out. Yesterday was so God-damn annoying. Yesterday, what a let-down?

After he had consumed a strong black coffee, he got dressed.

Some while later, Laura came into the kitchen, carrying her overnight bag.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘I’ve fixed breakfast. Coffee, waffles with syrup, and blueberry muffins, okay?’

‘That’s great,’ she said, showing a faint smile.

‘Sorry about last night,’ she said, ‘couldn’t help the way I was.’

‘No sweat,’ he said, looking into her pupils and accepting why they were different people in so many ways; Laura a staunch Catholic, wanting to hold the line on morality, he a lapsed Catholic for reasons going back to his puberty and from his affluent upbringing.

‘What we had planned,’ Laura said, ‘breaking one of God’s commandments, was never destined to happen between us. But we can always be friends.’

Daniel considered if John F Kennedy’s assassination drove a wedge between them; or did another reason exist?

Having had breakfast, mainly in silence, Daniel got up from the table. ‘I’ll call a taxi and take you to the Greyhound bus depot.’

Neither mentioned the President’s assassination again nor did they discuss what they had planned and what had not happened in the bedroom of the house guests’ suite.

Hand in hand, they came down the steps from the entrance door and onto the pavement. The taxi pulled up.

A gloominess coming over him, Daniel released his handclasp. ‘You go on in the cab,’ he said, ‘I’m not at all well.’

‘Are you sure,’ she said, ‘that you don’t want me to stay around?’

‘No need,’ he said, opening the door of the taxi.

‘You’re clear in your mind that you’ll be all right?’ Taking a cue from his vacant expression, Laura got into the taxi.

He closed the door behind her and handed a twenty dollar bill to the driver. Without salutation, he turned around and climbed the steps to his home. He went inside and slammed the door shut. Now alone, not having to act a deception with Laura, some other force taking control of his intellect, his face reddened, complimenting the colour of his hair.

In the parlour, his head pounding, he grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels and poured a large measure, swallowing it in one go. He flicked on the TV and turning around, he stared at the framed photograph on the mantelpiece of his father and the late President shaking hands. The TV screen warmed, reflecting its image on the photograph glass; John F Kennedy slumping forward from a bullet in the back of his head. Daniel’s eyes involuntary closed, and through the redness of his blood filtering through his eyelids; he imagined a hateful figure cowering behind a gun muzzle. Darkness clouding his fuzzy mind, a macabre sensation weighing him down, he smirked like an evil predator. Thrusting his head forward, he smashed his forehead into the glazed photograph, sending blood-stained glass splinters crashing onto the marble hearth.

Chapter 2

USA - March 1968

Dressed in a dark grey suit, President Johnson sauntered into the White House family sitting room, his face drawn. ‘Wish tomorrow was over,’ he said. ‘I’m so uptight about the commissioning of the USS Annie Oakley.’ He eased his tired frame on to the chaise-lounge and let his slip-on moccasins fall on the carpet.

The First Lady, sitting on a firm armchair, switched her view from the 10pm TV news towards her husband. She reduced the volume. ‘You’ve had another tricky session,’ she said. ‘I can see it in your expression.’

‘You read me only too well.’

‘I know you’re more than anxious today,’ she said ‘This has been happening of late on the eve of your public appearances. Of course, tomorrow’s ceremony should be fun.’

The President’s frown lines deepened. Fun my ass? He waved an open hand towards the TV. ‘Mind if we turn off that idiot box Lady Bird. It’s grating my brain.’

‘Sure Lyndon—whatever you say.’

‘The longer I’m in office; the harder making a public speech gets. I was never meant to be President. Why did that sonuvabitch Oswald shoot Kennedy?’ He stretched out on the sofa, holding his hands together as if in prayer.

The First Lady ambled over and sat next to him, placing her hand gently on his head, stroking gently. ‘Tomorrow, you’ll do us proud,’ she said, ‘like you always do.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘This ain’t my first rodeo.’

‘I understand what you’re going through. My heart goes out to you.’

‘Right now,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an uncomfortable sensation is in my stomach. I can’t fathom if it’s from hunger, an ailment or anxiety.’

‘You do realise, that you haven’t had any supper?’

‘Much too late now,’ he said.

‘You’ll have a night-cap?’

He eased his legs onto the floor and sat upright. ‘Okay then, the usual.’

‘That’ll be Fresca and tapioca.’

‘I hope the cook left some pudding in the ice box,’ he said, ‘irritates me when the servants are at times are so forgetful.’

‘Now, Lyndon,’ the First Lady said admonishment in her tone.

‘Reminds me of the waste of lights in this house,’ he said. I’m sick and tired flicking off switches.’

Drained by the escalating Vietnam War and a host of other matters of State, The President had become moodier than ever, taking his frustration out on his staff, in particular, the White House domestic staff. The First Lady often had the task of patching up hurt feelings.

He considered if he should he tell her a secret, a particular state secret bothering his mind for some time. He decided that only if it became necessary, would he come clean on the USS Annie Oakley. He glanced at her concerned expression returning from the kitchen. ‘Sorry,’ he said, watching her placing his night-cap tray on the coffee table. ‘My apologies if I appeared a trifle sharp. Nothing personal towards the cook or any of the staff—it’s just the pressure is wearing me down.’

‘You must agree tomorrow’s event brings welcome tidings. The addition of an aircraft carrier to the fleet is certainly a welcome occurrence.’

‘It should be,’ he said, ‘but I have my misgivings.’

‘I don’t comprehend,’ she said, studying him inhaling the familiar odour and starting into his tapioca. ‘For certain, the latest carrier will be a boost to the morale of the Nation and have a significant impact on the Vietnam War. I’m convinced she will turn the course of the conflict in our favour.’

‘As I’ve already said, I have misgivings.’ He scooped spoonfuls of his tapioca pudding into his mouth in quick succession, ‘awesome and tastes delicious, my first choice dessert, and costing so little. You know how I hate extravagance of any kind.’

‘Before I forget Lyndon, you never explained to me as to why the USS Annie Oakley is so unusual in your mind above all the other carriers ever built.’

He gulped down another mouthful. ‘You must understand I’m not free to