MONKEY SEE DÉJÀ VU

I’ll never forget Sunday, November 17, 1963—the first time I saw President Kennedy shot. He waved to the downtown Pittsburgh crowd from Uncle Jimmy’s black four-door 1961 Lincoln Continental convertible, odd, since my Uncle’s convertible was a two-door yellow Buick. The scream awakened my sister Jeannie.  She bolted up, rubbed her half-open eyes, and grumbled, “You woke me up, Monkey? What’s wrong with you?” Jeannie had taken to calling me Monkey (short for Monkey see–Monkey do) since all her friends decided that “little sisters were worse than dirty chewing gum stuck to their shoes.” 

“I dreamt the president got shot.” I blurted out. “It was so scary. His head exploded!”

“You better not say anything to mom,” Jeannie leaned back on one elbow. “She was hopping mad when dad let you watch him clean his shotgun. If she finds out you’re having gun nightmares, Dad will be burnt toast.”

“What if it’s a message from God? What if someone is going to kill the president, for real?” I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and grabbed my robe. “I have to tell her.”

“No one is going to believe that God sent a kid in first grade a message about the President of the United States.” Jeannie dropped her head back on the pillow and slapped her forehead. “How about this. We go to church. You ask God if he wants you to tell Mom about your dream and see if he says, ‘Yes.’ If he doesn’t, it was just a dream.” She scooped her Alice-in-Wonderland watch off the nightstand. Alice’s big hand was on the eleven, and the little hand was on the seven. “Let’s get dressed. Mass is at nine o’clock. Dad hates to be late.”

I washed my face and hands, brushed my teeth, and wiggled into my Sunday blue and green plaid dress. A pair of white ankle socks with little ruffles around the edges sat on the nightstand, right where mom put them the night before. I slipped them on and dropped down to look under the bed for my patent leather shoes. Jeannie held the door open. “Come on, Monkey,” she said. 

Our bedroom door was opposite mom and dad’s room. At the same time, Mom and I stepped through the doorways into our narrow hall. She took one look at me and winced. “Mary Louise. You look like you combed your hair with a wagon wheel.” She produced a hairbrush as if by magic. “I can’t have you going to church looking like somebody nobody owns!” 

She yanked on one knot and then another. My neck bobbed back and forth while she insisted that I was old enough to brush my own hair, and if I didn’t start, she was going to cut it off. My stomach was churning. I wasn’t sure if it was the nightmare, my hair being ripped out at the roots, or the crew cut threat. Something was off. An ominous bad feeling descended on me like I had inhaled a jitterbug. 

I bounced around in the back seat of the car on the way to church, despite Mom demanding, “Stop that!” at least four times.

Dad pulled our old green 1957 Chevy into his usual space in the church parking lot. The car door, which often squeaked, did not. No trace of the normal thud followed the church door’s closing, and no one in the congregation uttered so much as a whisper when I slide into the pew. I was sure God had made everyone and everything quiet, so I wouldn’t miss a word of His message—until the organ music ran down my spine, and everyone belted out “A Mighty Fortress is our God,” in the key of C. I sat there on the edge of my seat, dangling my feet—waiting. The music stopped and the priest began, “In the name of the Father…” 

It was Stewardship Sunday. The only message the priest had was that the parishioners weren’t doing enough, volunteering enough, and donating enough. When the organist struck up the recessional song, I was still waiting for a message. As if to reinforce that I had come up empty, Jeannie leaned over and said, “Any news?” I squinted at the altar, giving God one more chance. This time the deafening silence felt more like an information-sucking vacuum than an impending announcement. 

I pursed my disappointed lips and shrugged. “I guess it was only a dream.”

Monday came and went, as did Tuesday and Wednesday. By Thursday, the lump that had taken up residence in my stomach seemed barely noticeable. But Friday, my nervous system joined the stomach, and a tingle of doom ran through my body. It took me forever to get ready for school. When I came downstairs, Mom looked at the clock and cried, “You’re still here. I thought you left with your sister. You’re going to be late again.” 

“I feel funny, Mom,” I said.

She knelt and brushed her cheek over my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. You’re just worried about being late.” She buttoned my winter coat, adjusted my hat and scarf, then added. “If you didn’t dawdle all the time, you wouldn’t be late.” Her tone was wishful, not scolding.

“I’m not worried about being late. I’m worried about President Kennedy.” I gasped. I didn’t know why those words slipped from my mouth.

Mom stared at me; her silence lasted so long that I thought she was waiting for a message from God, too. 

“Mary Louise, I don’t know what’s got into you!” She took my hand. “Honey, I’m sure the president appreciates your thinking about him, but he has hundreds of people who aren’t late for first grade to worry about him.” She glanced at the clock again. “I’d better drive you to school. Get in the car.”

An ominous feeling followed me like a lost puppy, through phonics, arithmetic, and lunch. Towards the end of the day, my teacher cleared her throat. “Group number one. Please take your seats in the reading area.” I slipped into my spot as the sound of a xylophone-like ascending triple bell signaled the PA system was active. 

The principal began, “Student and teachers, I have a tragic announcement. President Kennedy has been shot. I would like everyone to pause for a moment of silence and a prayer for the repose of his soul.”

My eyes filled with tears. My throat closed. I could barely breathe. It wasn’t a dream. It was true. Descending bells signaled the end of the news. It was my turn to read, but when I opened my mouth, no words came out—only a guilty uncontrollable sob. 

Reading ended, and so did the class day. I found my coat, slipped it on, and stepped in line. The class exited the room single file. I still wonder how I made it outside, weighed down with all that guilt. Jeannie’s voice snapped me out of my sorrowful funk.

“Mary Louise, are you all right?” she asked.

I whispered, “I should have told Mom. I should have told Dad. I should have said something.” I should have noticed she didn’t call me Monkey. 

In front of all her friends, Jeannie threw her arms around me and said, “It wouldn’t have mattered. No one would have believed you.” She adjusted my tossle cap and added, “It will be our secret, for as long as you want.” Now the secret is out.

They say everyone remembers where they were when they heard that President Kennedy had been shot—that goes double for me.