Not Who They Think It Was

         The autumn breeze of November 1963 made my straight-as-an-arrow mousy brown locks fly around my face, framing it, and my demure brown cotton dress rustled like jute as I skipped jovially out of Texas Institute of Astrophysics in Dallas, headed home. By walk, of course.

         That’s me, Evangeline Goodcorn, better known as Angie or just Anne. The 18-year-old girl who graduated a year early from school who always wears a brown cotton dress under a black duster coupled with dark grey Mary Jane’s. The first girl in over 10 generations to be born into the Goodcorns, a family notorious for its generations of men ending up as petty thieves.

         As you may have already guessed, my family is far from wealthy, hence the generations of petty thieves. Unlike my classmates, there’s no multitude of servants to wait on my hand and foot, nor a BMW waiting for me in the car park to be driven home, a pair of blue denim jeans, lip gloss, tank tops, high heels (none of which I would wear even if I had the money to), or a Daddy with a bank account bigger than Russia. My hardworking father already struggled enough to provide for his family of 5. Family of 5 misfits.

         A wife who hasn’t been able to work as anything but a housewife for more than 20 years following a mad dog that took her left wrist.

         A 23 year old good-for-nothing son who dropped out of college in his first semester of Communications because it was “too hard” that only serves as a waste of money, food, space, air and clothes.

         A 20-year-old son yet to finish his degree in Hotel Management.

         An adamant 18-year-old daughter who strictly refuses to even consider dating a rich young classmate, instead choosing to focus 1000% on finishing her lengthy degree in Astrophysics, with a dream of working in NASA.

         And a monotonous office job that keeps him trapped in the never-ending cycle, shackled.

         But Dad would rather be shot dead than be caught stealing. He’s worked hard his entire life and wouldn’t steal a crumb of bread to save his life.

         Speaking of crumbs of bread…

         Without a servant to do our shopping, the duty falls on me to pick up whatever there is on Mom’s shopping list. Today, the list is barely:

Bread

Eggs

Milk

         There’s only 1 place I’d be caught dead at buying bread: Baker’s Bakery. It’s about a block away from TIAD if you cross the street and take a right. Baker’s Bakery is owned by the husband of one of Mom’s close friends.

         The irony of that name is not lost on me.

         I push the door open, greeted by the familiar twinkling sound of the bells above the door and the smell of freshly baked bread straight from the oven. Mrs. Baker, the owner’s wife and cashier is facing away from me, as usual, getting the latest batch of bread out of the oven.

         “Good afternoon, Mrs. Baker! How are you?” I greet, smiling as I rest my elbows on the granite slab extension of the counter.

“Anne, darling!” she says, with a hint of Southern accent in her voice, turning around with a big smile on her face. Mrs. Baker is one of Mom’s childhood friends, and I’ve known her since I was in diapers. Of course, her apron is dusted with flour, tied around her notably large midsection, and there’s a streak of the same white powder in her greying light chestnut brown hair.

“I’m doing wonderful, dear, and you?” she asked, dusting her hands, turning around to face me.

“Fine. We have another assignment in Electromagnetism and Thermodynamics, which has set everyone to whining, but me to grinning.”

“Oh, don’t go along telling me about Electromagnets and Thermal-dynamites!” she says, chuckling, waving her hand. “I’m a baker’s wife, just that.”

I offered her a sad smile. Everyone knows about Mrs. Baker’s tragic past. She was on her way to become a doctor, with an acceptance letter from an Ivy league medical school (despite being a girl) within her reach, but when her father died of a sudden cardiac arrest, cutting off the family’s financial support, her hopes and dreams were shattered and she was forced to find a suitable match as soon as possible to save herself and her reputation. Apparently, Mr. Baker had tried his best to get Mrs. Baker into medical school after they got married, but Mrs. Baker had resigned herself to a life of being no more than a baker’s wife. I prayed to god I wouldn’t end up in a similar way.

“It’s almost pathetic how disinclined these girls are towards their studies.” I said, steering the subject away from what was still a sore subject for Mrs. Baker.

“Disinclined they are, alright. You be a good girl and do the right thing, Anne. You know your right from your wrong.” She said seriously. “Now, what will our little Anne Goodcorn be buying today?” she asked, suddenly changing the subject.

“It’s the usual, Mrs. Baker. Just 2 loaves of bread.” I said, relieved.

“2 loaves of Baker’s Bread it is, then. Fresh from the oven.” She smiled, handing me my already packed purchase. “And there’s a little treat for you.” She said, winking at me.

I looked at what she’d placed inside the bag, and nearly fainted from shock.

         “Mrs. Baker, you can’t! I-I can’t accept this, Mrs. Baker!” I exclaimed. Inside the bag was a full chocolate cake, with icing and an edible chocolate rose.

“For you and your Momma, Angie. My favourite customers- the Goodcorn girls.” She said, pushing my hands away. “You both need a little treat to keep you going.”

“Mrs. Baker, I’ll pay you back tomorrow. This-I can’t accept this, Mrs. Baker. It’s something far too expensive to gift.” I pleaded.

“So those Gucci tings are cheap enough to gift? Don’t you try to get out of this, Anne. Your Dadda don’t have money enough for buying this right now. I baked that cake with my very own hands just for you two girls. You wouldn’t want that to go to waste, would you?” she asked.

“No, not at all, but Mrs. Baker!” I whined.

“Nuh-uh. I ain’t having none o’ your dramatics today, Evangeline Amelia Peterson Goodcorn. I insist. You Goodcorn girls need a treat.” She commanded. I gulped.

“Alright. But if Mom marches right up to your doorstep with $10 in hand, I’m going to say, “I told you so.” “.

         Mrs. Baker patted my shoulder, leaving an affectionate handprint on my black duster. I smiled and didn’t bother brushing it off.

“THANK YOU, MRS. BAKER!” I hollered from the doorway, holding the door handle.

“Not a problem, dearie!” she hollered back from the counter, where she was arranging the next batch of baguettes.

         Still flustered and light-headed from Mrs. Baker’s gift, I trotted along to the supermarket. It’s not very far, and both the Bakers’ and the supermarket are on my way back home. There’s barely a mile between TIAD and home, so I’m never tired and weary of walking.

         The supermarket is not a homely place like the Bakers’ Bakery. It’s just another store belonging to a large chain of supermarkets, and oddly cold all year round.

         As I picked up the eggs and milk, something seems… odd and out of place. Many people are whispering in hushed tones and gasping, looking horrified at their phones and there are a few who are crying. People aren’t focusing it at me, but I could probably cut the tension with a knife.

“What’s wrong?” I asked the cashier billing my eggs and milk, whose nametag read Darby.

“What do you mean?” Darby asked.

“People are…everyone’s just so restless. Is something wrong? It’s like the President died, or something.” I joked.

Darby shifted uncomfortably. “That’ll be $1.10, Miss. You’re not far from the truth. Haven’t you heard?” she asked.

The blood drained from my face. Now, I have no personal affiliations with the President Kennedy, but, well, he’s the President. Of one of the richest and most powerful countries in the world. That’s cause enough for worry for me.

“No, actually, I haven’t.” I said, handing over the money. “I’m just heading home from Uni and don’t have a device of my own.”

“President John F Kennedy was shot today, Miss. 12:30 in the afternoon, at Dealey Plaza, in a presidential motorcade.” Darby responded, brushing the brown bangs from her eyes. I paled further. Dealey plaza wasn’t too far from TIAD.

“Good lord.” I said. “Have they caught the criminal yet?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. I heard some saying a young man by the name of Lee Harvey Oswald did it, but we won’t know till tomorrow morning. And Miss, your bag.” The young girl said, handing me the plastic cover. Then, with a look of concern, she said, “Stay safe. You’re a young girl alone on the road.”

“Thank you. And yes, I will. I can take care of myself.” I smiled. But why did the name Lee Harvey Oswald sound so familiar? It was like a distant dream, somewhat forgotten, but on the tip of my mind. Did I know him? Yes, I knew him. Now that I tried to recall, I was sure I’d met him on multiple occasions.

“Have a good day, come again.” Darby chorused behind me, causing the pit of dread in my stomach to only deepen.

*

         The President was dead. He was shot. At Dealey plaza, barely 2 miles from my home. I should be running now, not walking calmly, as if all was well.

         I put eggs in the paper cover Mrs. Baker sold her bread in, on top of the cake. I wouldn’t want to drop those. I transferred the bread to the plastic cover from the supermarket and put the paper cover in my backpack. Then, I got up and ran home for dear life.

*

         I could hear Philip, my eldest good-for-nothing brother laughing like a maniac even before I got as far as the porch. This wasn’t good. If Philip was laughing, it was never good.

         Suddenly, my blood filled with adrenaline. My heartbeat accelerated like crazy and I thrust my keys into the lock and pushed the door with all I had. My heart threatened to beat out of my chest, and I could feel the blood rising in my face. Oh- finally! The door creaked open, and I kicked it, desperate to get in.

“Mom? Mom! Mom!” I screamed, tossing the plastic bag and my backpack aside.

“Anne, sweetheart?” Mom asked, emerging from the living room, a worried frown on her face. I could feel the tension in the air, around Mom. Something was wrong.

         I took more after my mother, in the genetic pool of appearances. I had her blue eyes the colour of ice, her complexion, and her brown hair. Mom’s hair was bouncier and curled, but I took after Dad with straight locks. She was shorter than me, at 5’6, but I was 5’7, taking after my Dad’s height. Today, she was wearing her normal knee-length, pale-yellow day dress, with her old, torn, white loafers.

         “Anne, darling, you’re home.” She said, sighing obviously with relief.

“Mom, what’s happening? What’s wrong?” I asked. The tension was so thick, I doubted a chainsaw could have cut it.

“Anne…” she said, looking to the hall.

“Marigold?” a deep, hoarse voice called from the living room. Dad.

“Dad? What’s Dad doing home?!” I all but screamed. If Dad was home, this situation just went from bad to horrible.

“Anne, lovely? Is that you there?” he asked, appearing. Dad was in a state of half deshabille, with only his trousers and white office shirt on. He didn’t even have his shoes on, only his socks.

“Dad?” I said, throwing myself into his arms. “Dad, what happened?!”

“Anne… the President is dead.” He whispered, fear in his eyes.

“So what?! I know he’s dead, but that’s no reason for you to be home so early and the tension thick enough to be cut with a chainsaw!” I blurted.

         Dad looked from me to the living room, where Philip was still laughing, and it suddenly clicked together.

The President. Shot.

Dealey Plaza. Not far.

Lee Harvey Oswald. Philip’s close friend.

Their most prized possession. A shared .38 caliber.

Philip. Sly.

Oswald. Somewhat thick, and now taking the blame.

         “Anne…” Mom whispers, “Philip killed the President.”