publisher like that one in Dallas.
As she walked into the first classroom on her schedule, her English teacher asked without preamble, “Are you a reader?”
In the most superior and snotty manner she could muster, Marti snapped, “Yes, I can read.” She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her but so what? “I can write, too,” she added. “I can even add and subtract.”
Miss DeShirley was the teacher’s name. She was tall andheavyset, an ugly woman with black hair wrapped in a bun at the back of her head. “How anecdotal,” she replied in an even voice without a hint of annoyance or so much as the blink of an eye. “I find that students who can read and write, add and subtract sometimes tend to learn more quickly than those who cannot. But that is not always the case. That, of course, is why I used the term
anecdotal
. I suppose then, in your case, it remains to be seen.”
Teacher and student were standing across from each other in the front of the classroom, just out of hearing range of the thirty-plus students sitting at desks, a few of whom were eyeing the new midterm arrival while the rest mostly talked among themselves. It was eight thirty in the morning, with the bell for first period only minutes away.
“Can you stand on your head?” Miss DeShirley asked.
“No, not really,” Marti said, her confidence now disappearing along with her attitude.
“Can you fly?” asked Miss DeShirley.
“No, ma’am,” said Marti, her face red, chest warm—grin beginning.
“Have you read any short stories by Guy de Maupassant?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. ‘The Necklace’ is the only one of Maupassant’s …”
“Always use the
de
. His full name is
de
Maupassant.”
“Yes, ma’am. I thought the ending—when it turns out the necklace was a fake one to begin with—is too tricky.”
“I agree,” said Miss DeShirley.
“But Shirley Jackson is my
real
favorite,” Marti said. “There are no tricks in ‘The Lottery.’ ”
“No indeed,” said the teacher. Miss DeShirley was now in a full smile herself and no longer seemed so ugly.
“Maybe it’s because she’s a female writer,” Marti said. “They don’t use a lot of tricks like the men seem to do.”
Marti, desperate for human contact, was on to the other subject in her life, besides Cowboys football, that truly excited her.
“Maybe so, maybe so.” Miss DeShirley was now beaming—and even kind of pretty. “Now, that truly is anecdotal.”
After moving a few steps toward the front of the classroom, she asked for the class’s attention.
“Please welcome Miss Marti Walters to our eleventh-grade class and to Longfellow School,” she said in a voice of command and presence. “She comes to us from Dallas …”
“They killed Kennedy there!” some boy yelled from the back.
“Kill the Cowboys!” shouted another.
Suddenly several others were yelling things about the Cowboys and murdering the president.
“We’ll have none of that kind of talk,” Miss DeShirley said sternly. “Marti is one of us and you will treat her as such.”
Marti managed only a half smile and a nod before the bell rang and Miss DeShirley began her lesson. The rest of her first day remained uneventful after that.
B Y M ARTI ’ S PRECISE count, Van Walters was only physically in Kansas City for twenty-two days over the next six months. Only five years later did she find out that the rest of the time he was away mostly testifying, preparing to testify, or waiting to testify. That was mostly in Washington, before Secret Service inspectors, FBI agents, and a wide variety of Warren Commission investigators, lawyers, and finally two of the important commissioners themselves—the diplomat John J. McCloy and the minority leader of the House of Representatives, Gerald R. Ford, a Republican from Michigan.
As predicted, with an even greater push after Ruby shot Oswald, the Kennedy assassination was turned into a federal case. And Hoover and the FBI did, in fact,
As she walked into the first classroom on her schedule, her English teacher asked without preamble, “Are you a reader?”
In the most superior and snotty manner she could muster, Marti snapped, “Yes, I can read.” She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her but so what? “I can write, too,” she added. “I can even add and subtract.”
Miss DeShirley was the teacher’s name. She was tall andheavyset, an ugly woman with black hair wrapped in a bun at the back of her head. “How anecdotal,” she replied in an even voice without a hint of annoyance or so much as the blink of an eye. “I find that students who can read and write, add and subtract sometimes tend to learn more quickly than those who cannot. But that is not always the case. That, of course, is why I used the term
anecdotal
. I suppose then, in your case, it remains to be seen.”
Teacher and student were standing across from each other in the front of the classroom, just out of hearing range of the thirty-plus students sitting at desks, a few of whom were eyeing the new midterm arrival while the rest mostly talked among themselves. It was eight thirty in the morning, with the bell for first period only minutes away.
“Can you stand on your head?” Miss DeShirley asked.
“No, not really,” Marti said, her confidence now disappearing along with her attitude.
“Can you fly?” asked Miss DeShirley.
“No, ma’am,” said Marti, her face red, chest warm—grin beginning.
“Have you read any short stories by Guy de Maupassant?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. ‘The Necklace’ is the only one of Maupassant’s …”
“Always use the
de
. His full name is
de
Maupassant.”
“Yes, ma’am. I thought the ending—when it turns out the necklace was a fake one to begin with—is too tricky.”
“I agree,” said Miss DeShirley.
“But Shirley Jackson is my
real
favorite,” Marti said. “There are no tricks in ‘The Lottery.’ ”
“No indeed,” said the teacher. Miss DeShirley was now in a full smile herself and no longer seemed so ugly.
“Maybe it’s because she’s a female writer,” Marti said. “They don’t use a lot of tricks like the men seem to do.”
Marti, desperate for human contact, was on to the other subject in her life, besides Cowboys football, that truly excited her.
“Maybe so, maybe so.” Miss DeShirley was now beaming—and even kind of pretty. “Now, that truly is anecdotal.”
After moving a few steps toward the front of the classroom, she asked for the class’s attention.
“Please welcome Miss Marti Walters to our eleventh-grade class and to Longfellow School,” she said in a voice of command and presence. “She comes to us from Dallas …”
“They killed Kennedy there!” some boy yelled from the back.
“Kill the Cowboys!” shouted another.
Suddenly several others were yelling things about the Cowboys and murdering the president.
“We’ll have none of that kind of talk,” Miss DeShirley said sternly. “Marti is one of us and you will treat her as such.”
Marti managed only a half smile and a nod before the bell rang and Miss DeShirley began her lesson. The rest of her first day remained uneventful after that.
B Y M ARTI ’ S PRECISE count, Van Walters was only physically in Kansas City for twenty-two days over the next six months. Only five years later did she find out that the rest of the time he was away mostly testifying, preparing to testify, or waiting to testify. That was mostly in Washington, before Secret Service inspectors, FBI agents, and a wide variety of Warren Commission investigators, lawyers, and finally two of the important commissioners themselves—the diplomat John J. McCloy and the minority leader of the House of Representatives, Gerald R. Ford, a Republican from Michigan.
As predicted, with an even greater push after Ruby shot Oswald, the Kennedy assassination was turned into a federal case. And Hoover and the FBI did, in fact,
Similar Books
