11/22/63: A Novel

The nasal New England voice that responded sent a chill up my back. This was a man who would have now been lying on a morgue slab, if not for Sadie and me. “Mister Amberson? Jack Kennedy here. I… ah… understand that my wife and I owe you… ah… our lives. I also understand that you lost someone very dear to you.” Dear came out deah, the way I’d grown up hearing it.

“Her name was Sadie Dunhill, Mr. President. Oswald shot her.”

“I’m so sorry for your… ah… loss, Mr. Amberson. May I call you… ah… George?”

“If you like.” Thinking: I’m not having this conversation. It’s a dream.

“Her country will give her a great outpouring of thanks… and you a great outpouring of condolence, I’m sure. Let me… ah… be the first to offer both.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” My throat was closing and I could hardly speak above a whisper. I saw her eyes, so bright as she lay dying in my arms. Jake, how we danced. Do presidents care about things like that? Do they even know about them? Maybe the best ones do. Maybe it’s why they serve.

“There’s… ah… someone else who wants to thank you, George. My wife’s not here right now, but she… ah… plans to call you tonight.”

“Mr. President, I’m not sure where I’ll be tonight.”

“She’ll find you. She’s very… ah… determined when she wants to thank someone. Now tell me, George, how are you?”

I told him I was all right, which I was not. He promised to see me at the White House very shortly, and I thanked him, but I didn’t think any White House visit was going to happen. All during that dreamlike conversation while the fan blew on my sweaty face and the pebbled glass upper panel of Chief Curry’s door glowed with the supernatural light of the TV lights outside, two words beat in my brain.

I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

The President of the United States had called from Austin to thank me for saving his life, and I was safe. I could do what I needed to do.

8

Five minutes after concluding my surreal conversation with John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Hosty and Fritz were hustling me down the back stairs and into the garage where Oswald would have been shot by Jack Ruby. Then it had been crowded in anticipation of the assassin’s transfer to the county jail. Now it was so empty our footsteps echoed. My minders drove me to the Adolphus Hotel, and I felt no surprise when I found myself in the same room I’d occupied when I first came to Dallas. Everything that goes around comes around, they say, and although I’ve never been able to figure out who the mysteriously wise sages known as “they” might be, they’re certainly right when it comes to time-travel.

Fritz told me the cops posted in the corridor and below, in the lobby, were strictly for my own protection, and to keep the press away. (Uh-huh.) Then he shook my hand. Agent Hosty also shook my hand, and when he did, I felt a folded square of paper pass from his palm to mine. “Get some rest,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

When they were gone, I unfolded the tiny square. It was a page from his notebook. He had written three sentences, probably while I was on the phone with Jack Kennedy.

Your phone is tapped. I will see you at 9 P.M. Burn this amp; flush the ashes.

I burned the note as Sadie had burned mine, then picked up the phone and unscrewed the mouthpiece. Inside, clinging to the wires, was a small blue cylinder no bigger than a double-A battery. I was amused to see that the writing on it was Japanese-it made me think of my old pal Silent Mike.

I jiggered it loose, put it in my pocket, screwed the mouthpiece back on, and dialed 0. There was a very long pause at the operator’s end after I said my name. I was about to hang up and try again when she started crying and babbling her thanks for saving the president. If she could do anything, she said, if anyone in the hotel could do anything, all I had to do was call, her name was Marie, she would do anything to thank me.

“You could start by putting through a call to Jodie,” I said, and gave her Deke’s number.

“Of course, Mr. Amberson. God bless you, sir. I’m connecting your call.”

The phone burred twice, then Deke answered. His voice was heavy and laryngeal, as if his bad cold had gotten worse. “If this is another goddam reporter-”

“It’s not, Deke. It’s me. George.” I paused. “Jake.”

“Oh, Jake,” he said mournfully, and then he started to cry. I waited, holding the phone so tightly it hurt my hand. My temples throbbed. The day was dying, but the light coming in through the windows was still too bright. In the distance, I heard a rumble of thunder. Finally he said, “Are you all right?”

“Yes. But Sadie-”

“I know. It’s on the news. I heard while I was on my way to Fort Worth.”

So the woman with the baby carriage and the tow truck driver from the Esso station had done as I’d hoped they would. Thank God for that. Not that it seemed very important as I sat listening to this heartbroken old man try to control his tears.

“Deke… do you blame me? I’d understand if you do.”