01 March 2019, Part II

“[Jimmy Hoffa’s] mention of legal problems in New Orleans translated into his insistence that Carlos Marcello arrange another meeting with Partin, despite my warning that dealing with Partin was fruitless and dangerous.”

“He wanted me to get cracking on the interview with Partin. In June, Carlos sent word that a meeting with Partin was imminent and I should come to New Orleans. As [my wife] watched me pack in the bedroom of our Coral Gables home, she began crying, imploring me not to see Partin. She feared that it was a trap and that I would be murdered or arrested.”

Frank Ragano, J.D., attorney for Jimmy Hoffa, Carlos Marcello, and Santos Trafacante Jr., in “Lawyer for the Mob,” 1994

Tim stood in the door and glanced around. He hand’t changed enough to notice, other than a bit of pudge around his belly; we’re both middle aged, and it shows. He still had close-cropped hair (though no bald spot yet), and with his posture, he looked like either someone in the military or someone who had spent a lot of time in the military. He carried a small backpack slung over one shoulder. He was wearing the same gold Rolex SubMariner, though at least he had swapped the shiny gold metal band with a clasp, the one that shouted at people to look at it, with a black corrugated rubber one with an old-school tuck-in band, like mine.

I was the only other caucasian in the restaurant, so he spotted me quickly and then smiled broadly. I stood up strait and grinned like a kid seeing Santa Claus at Christmas. He strolled up, but paused a few feet away.

He said: “Dude, you’ve aged.”

“Fuck you,” I said.

I scratched my grey beard. The crinkle echoed in my skull. A thought popped in my head that I should shave sooner than I planned; I’m vane, but at least I’m not proud of it.

“I’ll shave before diving,” I said.

We spread our arms in unison, and stepped into each other’s embrace.

“It’s good to see you, man,” I said to his right ear.

“You too, brother,” he said to mine.

We gave manly pats on each other’s backs that Hemmingway would respect, then stepped back. I sat on a barstool with my left foot twisted under me and most of my weight on my straight right leg. Tim plopped in the seat and rested his feet on the footrest.

“Dude,” I said, nodding towards the bartender. “This guy’s a maestro with mojitos.”

Tim raised his hand and the bartender approached and Tim ordered two house mojitos. They arrived quickly, and we raised our glasses, and caught eye contact; to not drink without getting eye contact first was seven years of bad sex. We paused for a moment, he tapped his glass on the table but I did not, and we sipped and exhaled like it was a ritual to do so, a celebration of returning home safely.

He said, “I still can’t get used to you drinking.”

I shrugged. “A lot of my friends do. After Dana and I divorced, they seemed happier than I was, so I gave it a go.”

I looked at him without smiling, and said, “It became a problem, but hiking the Himalayas got me back on track.” I smiled and raised my glass to stop him from commenting. We locked eyes, toasted, and sipped; this time there was no sound after.

“I still don’t understand how you got invited by the Dali Lama,” Tim said. “How is he, by the way? The last time I saw him, his hip was jacked and we had to help him up and down.”

“I didn’t spend time with him; the Tibetan University’s chancellor invited me last-minute, and I left early. But he seemed the same. He even wrote about his hip in a book recently; he stopped sitting on floors because of joint pain.”

“You left early?”

“Yeah,” I said. “The vibe was to sit in chairs and listen, so at the first lunch break I took off and spent the rest of the week with a bookseller near the museaum and Jain temple. He’d been there for 35 years and raised four kids from his push cart. A real entrepreneur.”

“He was little dude,” I put my hand out as if tapping the head of someone around five feet tall, “And after selling books to pilgrims for 35 years, he seemed to have it together better than any of the twats at the conference.”

“Well,” he said. “What’d you learn.”

I sipped my mojito and gave a smile and nod to the bartender, who was watching the level of our glasses in his periphery. I wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” I said. I knew he meant the kiosk. “First of all, it took me twice as long to hike the Annapurna trail as I had planned. I should have multiplied my time by pi.”

“At least you did it!” Tim said. He was right. It’s pretty hard.

“Yeah. A couple of Israelis on leave backed down half way up, and it was nice to keep going,” I said. “But I got really sick in a small village at around 16,000 feet. My asthma kicked into overdrive. It was during the elections, so there was no space to stay, and those Chinese-armed twats kept their machine guns pointed on us.”

I took a sip of beer, expecting Tim to comment. He sipped and waited. I set my beer down and continued. “A guy I met in Khatmandhu was there, and let me stay with his family for a week until the results were verified. It was the second democratic election in his parent’s lifetime, which was neat to see. My lungs cleared up and I started out again, but I was weezing all the way to the top, and went so slow I spent a few nights at an emergency hut shivering and debating a month’s worth of decisions. I ran out of water and had to get going.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “You’ll appreciate this.”

Tim stopped sipping and set his drink down and raised his eyebrows.

“At the summit, I was batshit delirious, but a lady that shouldn’t have been there had bad altitude sickness, and their group had been abandoned by a guide with a satellite phone while he tried to call rescue. I helped stabilizer her and shot the shit with their group – Germans and a Swiss, I think. I scraped away snow, set up the LZ, and told the guide the angle and wind while he talked with the helicopter. It was neat to see all of memories from twenty years ago flow into my body.”

“A helicopter that high?”

“Exactly! That’s what I thought you’d appreciate. It was a private ‘copter, about the size of a Huey, and the pilot was an old SAS dude.”

“SAS,” Tim said. “There?”

“Yes. I was surprised at how many British expats are in Nepal. They even have their own Scotch blended with Himalayan water. The guy landed as hard as you’d expect at 20,000 feet, but kept his cool. He had enough room for the three people and their guide, and it took a while to load them up. We were moving through molasses.”

“But here’s the thing,” I said. “Do you remember Tanzi?

Tim’s face lit up, and he asked, “From Somalia?

I nodded. “The SAS dude told me he opened a cafe on the downhill side of the trail.”

“Holy crap!” Tim said. “How’s he doing?”

The bartender came over and offered to replenish our empty glasses, and Tim ordered another round of the same, saying it was on him. The bartender smiled and nodded, tapped the counter, and went to work.

“Still funny,” I said. “But business took a hit when they built that road. Most hikers take the fast route and skip his cafe. There are hot springs nearby, so I parked there for a week and hung out with him. Man! He can cook! He always could whip something up with whatever market we stumbled upon.”

My eyebrows shot up; this was the first time I spoke with someone who knew Tanzi since I returned. “He still had that Gurkha,” I said. “His father’s.”

Tim grinned and asked, “Did you ask to see if he really could chop the head off a water buffalo in one swipe?”

“Ha! No,” I said. Something deep inside me stirred; as much as I love my friends in San Diego, it’s nice to swap tales with old friends who know your core more than civilian friends ever will; genuine laughter about harsh images felt good. “But I wouldn’t doubt it. I borrowed one and helped him harvest some buckwheat. It’s really a nice blade. My only regret from the trip is not bringing one home.”

Our drinks arrived and we repeated our toast. A thought popped in my mind, and I burst into laugher and put a hand to my nose to stop mojito from flying out.

“Dude!” I said. “A buddy back in San Diego is one of the funniest people you’ve ever met. Usually quiet, but a sniper with his jokes. I told him about seven years of bad sex,” I said, holding up the glass in my right hand, “and he did this:” I rotated my head and used my left hand to block my sight from anyone’s eyes. I looked back at Tim and he cocked his head.

“He said: ‘since having the third kid, we’re not having sex so even years of bad sex sounds better than none at all!”

We guffawed, and Tim pulled out his phone.

“Here’s who I’m seeing now,” he said, handing it to me.

She was a gorgeous Latina. I looked up and made a questioning look and spread my fingers apart. He nodded and I zoomed in. She had a subtle Adam’s apple. Tim slept with anything willing. In his youth, when he was just a secret service guy, and after a few beers, he’d tell us tales of sleeping with half the daughters and more than a few sons of senators and dignitaries.

I handed the phone back, kept my mouth shut, and cocked my head a bit, as if offering an ear.

“I like her,” he said. “I’ll miss her when I leave.”

“When’s that?” I asked.

“In a few weeks. Your trip’s good timing.”

“That reminds me,” I said. I reached into my backpack, pulled out Frank Sheenan’s book, and handed it to Tim. He glanced at the cover and said he had heard about the new Scorcesse film but hand’t read it; he rotated it and read the back, then flipped through and stopped at some of my notes. I noticed he stopped on the quote I underlined about Hoffa telling Frank to ensure my grandfather remained alive.

“The actor who plays my grandfather called and asked how to portray him,” I said.

Tim looked up and raised his eyebrows.

“That’s part of my trip,” I said. “I don’t know how to do it. I mean, I know him, but I didn’t know how to tell someone to behave like him. I’m not sure you could fake it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charisma,” I said. “Charm. That ineffable thing that makes people trust you or gravitate toward you.”

“We all want to emulate someone,” Tim offered.

“Yes,” I said, “but that part’s easy: he was big and handsome, strong and successful, and women loved him.”

I paused and stared into my drink, looking for the next sentence.

I looked back up and said, “But there’s more. I don’t think you and I ever met someone like him.”

“Anyway,” I said. “That call got me thinking. I never verified the rumors that he was in Cuba, so that’s part of my trip. Have you heard of an old hotel called the Havana Cabana?”

Tim shook his head and asked, “How old?”

“Early 1960’s, after the embargo and just before the Bay of Pigs. There’s nothing online except a Havana Cabana Hotel in Miami, and a book about the mafia in Havana – Havana Confidential or Nocturnal or something like that – doesn’t list it. I thought maybe an old-school guy would remember it, and I could see if he remembered my grandfather.”

Tim shook his head again and said, “I don’t know any of those guys still around. I’ll ask, though.”

I thanked him, and then another round of mojitos arrived. We toasted and chatted about things. He was three years older than I was, but started wanting kids. His mom had eight with his dad; his dad had another seven with his second wife. Having kids didn’t seem to stop Tim’s dad from having sex. Tim was retiring soon and would be home more. We slipped into talking about old friends, and my words were beginning to slur. We turned to old times, and old friends. My jaw tightened and my frown quivered. Tim and I avoided gazes and found something interesting in the bottom of our almost empty glasses. He raised his glass and spoke first.

“To Mike,” he said.

“To Mike,” I said; but instead of toasting, the glass hit the counter and I looked down and sobbed. Tim put his hand on my shoulder and waited.

“I’m sorry,” I slurred. I looked up and held up the glass and apologized: “Alcohol’s a depressant,” I said.

Tim sat silently and waited. I held his gaze and said, “I tried Tim. I went and saw him and I tried.”

Tim squeezed my shoulder.

“I even got drunk with him. He said it, too, that it was hard to see me drink. I was laughing and thought that’s what he needed. He kept going on about Blackhawk Down and the Ranger’s creed.”

I looked down and took a few breaths. “I wasn’t listening,” I said.

The bar was spinning; I had drank too much. I looked back up and saw that the bartender was watching us, perplexed. I smiled and he came over. I asked for a round of pulpo papilla, and waters. Tim ordered another mojito. We toasted, and to keep my head straight I looked at his watch and the second hand ticking with a subtle jerky motion that belied the quartz crystal inside; my Uncle Bob’s perpetual motion Rolex moved in a seamless motion, and in my saddened state I began thinking of him; alcohol really is a depressant. I started talking to break my thoughts.

“He was on to something,” I said, sipping my water. “About ‘leave no man behind.’ He kept saying no one knew what that meant. Hollywood did more harm than good. He had a lot of anger. We were laughing about it, but he was angry.”

“There was nothing he could have done,” Time said.

I shook my head no. “That’s not the point,” I said. “It was big picture. The lessons learned. The film didn’t capture the aftermath.”

I sighed and said, “He and I talked a lot about my trip to India. what it means to have a self or not to have a self. If we’re all a collected conscious, or all God’s children, then no man left behind meant, ‘what makes us human?’ He was having an existential crisis. He wanted that to be in the film. Instead, it was more glory to the U.S. military.”

I took a deep breath and stared into Tim’s eyes and said, “Who do we help?”

“What do you mean?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But I felt the point more than understood what he meant. If we’re all born the same, what makes one person worth saving and another not worth saving.” I paused for effect and said, “Or killing.”

Tim was about to say something, but I held up my hand.

He changed his mind and said, “You’re right. We’re lucky. We can choose. That’s what we learned from you.”

I cocked my head. I didn’t know if I was being slow from booze, or I had heard Tim say he learned something from me.

“What do you mean?” I asked

“Dude,” Tim said. “We all had it easy. Iraq. The bodies. That girl. You never stopped smiling.”

Tim rushed his speech. “I tell the young guys in training about you,” he said. “Not by name, but that you stuck to your guns. Rank and orders never matter. Be true to yourself and everything will work out. Just smile, and don’t get distracted.”

“I’m still and asshole,” I said. “That’s my definition of an entrepreneur: someone who never wants a boss.”

The pulpo arrived and the bartender filled our waters. We dived in, and a bowl of chips and salsa magically appeared when we were almost done.

“Anyway,” I said. “Mike didn’t get it either. But it got him on killing vs. murder again.”

“Achmed was right,” Tim said. “It’s all about definitions and who teaches you.”

“Exactly. No man left behind. The Buddha said it well: there’s no sin, only ignorance. Most people are ignorant and can’t see humanity.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ignorant, or humanity?”

“Either.”

“Ignorant of our humanity. Stop fighting and realize we’re all aboard Spaceship Earth.”

“It’s not that easy,” Tim said.

“How does your mom feel about that?” I asked.

“Dude,” Tim said. “Sometimes you have to clear a room.”

“You know that’s not true, Tim.” I held my gaze. He looked down and tapped his glass.

“Did I ever tell you that Buckmeinister Fueller’s first geodesic dome was in Baton Rouge?”

“Really? “Baton Rouge?” Tim’s from Boston, and assumes everything novel happens in the northeast.

“Yeah. It was the airport storage shed for lawn mowers and stuff. Architecture students from all over the country flew there to see it. It was a good chance to talk about Spaceship Earth, but the airport tore it down and built a big boring square one.” I paused and thought about it, and said, “I’d like to see the air conditioning cost difference, but they probably didn’t keep records.”

Tim was about to comment, but the bartender approached and I made the universal gesture for “check, please.” He nodded, tapped the table, and was about to begin calculating when someone ordered from the bar. He rushed down there to get their order. Tim looked up and glanced at his watch and nodded that it was a good time to go home, but without a sense of urgency.

“Hey Tim,” I said. “I was hoping you could help me with my Spanish.”

“Of course,” he said, “Anything specific?”

“I want to make a pun,” I said. “Hold on…”

I shifted my hips, reached in my pocket. My face must have grimaced.

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

I shook my head no, and said I was sore from the flight.

“Bullshit. I don’t like seeing my friends in pain. What’s going on?”

“A lot of arthritis,” I said. “My spine is like a old gnarly Zinfadel vine wrapped around my spinal cord. If I don’t move, it binds up and I wince.”

We started, so I continued. “Do you know what the labrum is?” He didn’t. “It’s like a gasket around your hip and shoulder joints that keeps synovial fluid in. It’s a tough piece of cartilage without blood supply, so when it breaks there’s no repair. We didn’t have a way to image it until recently; some influential orthopedic surgeon started doing injected MRI’s, and estimated that 35% of hip replacements were pain and stickiness form torn labrums. All of mine are shredded.”

Tim’s face scrunched up, as if to show he understood. He asked, so I continued, “There are cysts around all of my joints, and the muscles by the cysts are atrophying. Constant moderate motion helps everything.”

“I’m sorry, J.”

I brushed away his condolences. “It’s a consequence of a hard life. It sucks, but so do a lot of things for a lot of people.”

“And I have what the VA calls fibromalaysia.”

“Muscle pain?”

“Yes,” I said, “but more than that. Tight nodes, stickiness between muscles. Some people say it’s facia. The VA says it’s a symptom of Desert Storm syndrome, and there’s an automatic combat-related disablity for it. But it’s common in the public. It’s probably just an effect of aging for a lot of us. My grandmother even had it her final ten years or so; for her, I think it was muscle tension from listening to people talk about my grandfather or Hoffa but keeping her mouth shut.”

Tim started to say something, but I cut him off. “Anyway,” I said with mischievous grin. “I didn’t come here to pontificate on our aging bodies. I could use your help with colloquial Cuban Spanish.”

I opened my hand and showed him the thumb tip and small red silk handkerchief crammed inside.

“Holy shit!” Tim said. “You still carry those?”

I grinned and nodded vigorously.

“How’s Frank?” Tim asked.

“He passed a few years ago,” I said. Tim mumbled an apology; sometimes, it’s better to not ask how people are doing. “I spoke with the new owners and they remembered him well. They dropped the magic shop, but kept the name ‘Dragon’s Lair” and advertise it as the oldest comic book shop in North Carolina.”

I paused and looked up thoughtfully. “You know,” I said, “They said they still keep folders of comic subscriptions for deployed soldiers. I didn’t think much of it when I was a kid, but it made me sad to think of kids with comic books fighting wars for people our age.”

Tim said I think too much. I felt the urge to tell him he doesn’t think enough, but instead I said, “I want to leave a tip,” I smirked and said, “Just the tip.” That got a chuckle.

I said, “And have them get the joke. ‘Thumb’ doesn’t work; is there any slang you can think of that would get the point across?”

He nodded his head no, and said he couldn’t think of anything. I asked if it would matter if I dropped the tip into their palm, if that was a play on words. I held out my palm as if I wanted him to, and he mimicked me. I dropped the tip on it and it looked like a small penis tip. Tim made a joke about that, but it was nothing I could use in Spanish to help loosen lips when I talked with people: I was looking for a classic, clean joke that the person could take home and teach his kid, a tip that kept on giving.

Nothing.

As asked if a plopping sound was something colloquial that I could work with. I took his other hand by the wrist and plopped it on top of the tip, seeing if the sound would trigger his funny bone. Nothing again. I picked up the tip and put it back in my pocket and said it was worth a shot.

The bartender came over and told us the tab was covered. I smiled and thanked him; Tim complained and made me promise to let him pay next time.

“When’s that going to be?” He asked.

“I’d like a few days to recover,” I said. “Can I text you in about two?”

He said of course, we hugged, I gathered my bags, and we walked out and parted ways.

I limped down the street, trying not to. It wasn’t just the alcohol – it had been a long two days. But it was more than that. It had taken me almost five years to make carrying reading glasses part of my routine; I’d have to add a walking stick one day, too. It wasn’t vanity that prevented me from carrying glasses and a cane, it was simply attachment to old routines, and limited room in carryon bags. Taking a cane would inevitably mean leaving something behind, like my climbing shoes, and loosing something is the harder for a human to accept than adding things, which we seem to do well.

I met the casa particulars family, and they were delightful. The room was better than expected: bright and airy, with double doors like my French doors, but that opened into a small courtyard, more like the Spanish style of homes. I knew I had drank too much, so I drank extra water, swallowed an 800 mg ibuprofen proactively, took a hot shower, and used the second towel as a yoga mat.

After a half hour of yoga, I didn’t want to lie down. My mind was still racing. Wendy was on my mind again, probably because Tim and I talked about Mike. Instead of resisting, I opened my e-reader and re-read an old letter from Mamma Jean. She had begun a hand-written letter to us in 1996, a year after Walter Sheridan died, that would have probably evolved into a memoir; Mamma Jean’s memory and attention to detail would have impressed all book editors, even Sol Stein and guys that focused on particularity. It was a natural talent, made more impressive because she kept the story to herself for 35 years. She never went to school after high school, yet her grammar and punctuation were better than mine after a couple of college degrees; I don’t know how she did it. I never had the chance to ask, because she passed away from her second bout of breast cancer soon after beginning the letter. Aunt Janice Zeroxed the letter and mailed copies to all of Big Daddy’s kids and grandkids. I scanned it to .pdf, typos and all, and uploaded it to my e-reader so I could search for key words.1

I wondered if something in Frank’s book would trigger seeing something new in her letter. It didn’t. I stared at the letter and contemplated what keywords I could search for in the JFK Assassination Report or any one of the books on my e-reader, but my head hurt too much to think. I was tired and wanted to sleep.

Unfortunately, I had gone too long vertical or sitting, and my spine had compressed and the nerves were screaming at me. I sat cross legged on the towel, placed my spine against a wall, and tried to meditate; by that, I mean I tried to watch my thoughts jump and focus on that instead of the pain. After about forty five minutes, it either began to work, or I was simply more tired and sleep called to me more with more of a siren’s song than my screaming back could compete with. I laid down with relaxes paraspinal muscles, and allowed my discs to soak up fluids and nutrients that had been squeezed out from two days without enough time horizontal. I had done something similar for more than a decade, and every time it took a bit longer. Discs desiccate naturally; Mother Nature stops putting energy into us after we pass child-bearing years (though I don’t know how that works for Tim’s dad), and without adding energy, entropy eventually wins, like with everything. The Buddha was right: old age and sickness are inevitable. So is death. Killing is a choice, I said to myself. Mike made a choice. Except for the inevitable, everything’s a choice. I don’t know how I could have gotten him to chose differently, or if that would have been best for him. I have no idea how much pain he was in, or how long he had suffered. The spinal chord holds on to memories, and pain signals get amplified before they’re sent to the brain, as if our body is shouting at us to change the situation.

I changed gears and thought about the next time I’d see Tim. He didn’t seem impressed with my thumb tip trick, but he would soon, because I stole his watch. I didn’t really need to have him hold the thumb tip, but it distracted him enough for me to unhitch his watch and palm it only a foot and a half from his nose. It was on the nightstand next to my watch; both bands were almost identical.

I used Francis Carlye’s technique from the 1950’s Stars of Magic series; Francis did a coin trick in their hands to focus attention, but otherwise the technique was the same of holding their wrists with your finger on the band, and when you rotate their hands you pull the strap through the clasp and cup the watch in your hand. My long fingers and big hands make it easier for me than most people, and because I kept going back and forth with a handkerchief, Tim didn’t notice that I stuck his watch in my back pocket.

An old lesson I taught Tim and our team – but that he hadn’t fully learned – was that when the mind’s distracted, it doesn’t notice things you’d think were blatantly obvious. When you’re clearing a room, don’t think of death, or you’ll be distracted away from your core. My words were a continuation of Coach’s, which was a continuation of Vince Lambarti’s: Fatigue will make a coward out of anyone. I saw the metaphor a long time ago, and I used to challenge myself by staying a step or two ahead of our team, catching them off guard the way a Zen master whacks the back of the head of someone who’s supposed to be alert while meditating.

I kept thinking about setting up Tim next time. That’s what kept my mind away from my back pain. And Mike. And Wendy. It’s a useful trick.

Go to The Table of Contents

Footnotes:

  1. 504 9th N.E.
    Springhill, LA 71075
    Aug. 17, 1996


    My dear children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren,
    I don’t know how to begin this. I should have written this when you were small, while it was fresh on my mind, also while your daddy was living. After someone dies, you seem to forget all the bad things and remember only the good in them. That is the way it is with my memories of Ed.

    He was so charming when I met him. As Jimmy Hoffa wrote in his book, “Ed Partin could charm a snake off a rock.” It was Aug. 1949 and I was living with my sister, Mildred and her husband, Percy Cobb in Natchez, Mississippi. International Paper Company was building a mill and Percy was superintendent of construction. Ed was steward over the Teamsters, Union (I.B.T.C. and W.). He came to the house one afternoon to talk to Percy concerning the Teamsters, and that is how I met him. I was 18 years old and he was 26. I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He had blond hair, blue eyes and teeth like pearls. Keith, he looked just like you, except he was 6’2”. He didn’t smoke or drink, not even beer, and I believed every word he said. He loved to come over to Mildred’s when I babysat James Paul. I thought he would make a good father. After six weeks we were married in Fayette, Mississippi, Sept. 27, 1949.

    Cynthia, I guess it was good thing I waited three years for you. Ed had not told me about his debts. He owed for three cars and we didn’t even have one. He had sold them before we married, spent the money but had not paid for the cars. He also had to spend three months in jail in Woodville, Mississippi, from October 10, 1949 until January 1, 1950. He wouldn’t tell me why; just that he was innocent. I wrote the judge a letter and he let him out. It was not until March 1964 that I found out why he was in jail.

    He made about $75.00 every two weeks, which was pretty good in 1950. We moved to Pascagoula, Mississippi in the spring of 1950. The Electricians went on a strike the first week we were there. Ed drew his unemployment, $20.00 a week. We paid $8.00 per week for our rented room and shared a kitchen. It was nice, we had no responsibilities so we would go to the beach everyday and cook hotdogs or hamburgers. We started going to church and were baptized June 17, 1950. The strike lasted three months. By that time, International Paper Company, had started an addition to the mill in Natchez and we moved back there, to the Pharsalia Apartments, which were brand new and real nice, two bedrooms, kitchen, living room and bath, no air conditioning in those days. That is when we bought furniture, the old mahogany bedroom suite, sofa, chairs and tables for the living room and a red Formica top, chrome kitchen table and chairs.

    By this time Ed had let me start handling the money and I had him out of debt by the time you cam, Cynthia. You were the answer to my prayers. Ed was real disappointed that you were a girl. Your grandmas Foster always said she was so glad you were a girl because “Son,” (that’s what all his family called him) didn’t get his way for the first time in his life. You were so pretty and you soon won his heart because you cried after him every time he went to work.

    Janice came a year later. I didn’t mind because Maurice was pregnant with Susan and we had the best time together. You and Susan were a week apart. I was going to help Maurice when she came from the hospital and then she was going to help me with Janice. I was not due until the first of August, but you came early so we had to call Mildred to come to our rescue. She was always so good to come stay with me when the first three of you were born. She stayed two weeks the next year when I had Edward. Ed was real good to go to church, he even went to Men’s training class when we lived in Natchez.

    The construction ended with I.P. Company so we moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, September 1, 1953. He got a job with a construction company driving a truck, and then in March 1954, he was elected business agent and Secretary and Treasurer for the Teamsters of Local #5. He made $75.00 a week.

    Baton Rouge was booming. Houses to rent were scarce. We rented a small two bedroom, kitchen, bath and living room on Ellerslie Drive, behind Memorial Stadium. By this time I was pregnant with Edward.
    We were doing better financially. We bought a brand new 1954 Ford. Edward was born July 1, 1954, finally a boy. You were so precious. You had the most beautiful brown eyes and dark brown hair.

    Ed began to find excuses not to go to church with us. He had union meetings on Sunday morning, so sometimes he would have them at the house and he would keep Edward while we went.

    He organized Louisiana Creamery, Holsum and Sunbean Bakeries, and the Refineries that were being built between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I really think he was honest during this time.

    We bought a lot on Prescott Road and in 1956 we built a house. I drew the plans and selected everything in it. Ed was very cooperative. It was just what I wanted, 2,586 square feet and a double carport. We moved in December 15, 1956. By this time we had two cars. The Teamsters had bought our 1954 Ford for Ed and we bought me a 1955 red and white Oldsmobile. I suppose that was the happiest time of my life. I really wanted another baby, now that I had this big, pretty house with two bathrooms. I was thrilled when I had you, Teresa. Especially to have one with blue eyes.

    Ed bought a truck stop and restaurant on Airline Highway, in April 1959, called the J and L Truck Stop. He also bought and old house with fifty acres out in the country close to Greensburg, Louisiana. He made a garden and mad repairs on the old house. He wanted us to move in it an sell the one on Prescott. I wouldn’t agree to it. I’m sure glad I didn’t. This is when our problems started. He was gone most of the time. Always Union Business or at the Truck Stop Restaurant. Mildred Kelly was a waitress there. I began to have suspicions of her and Ed having an affair. It would make him mad and deny it when I confronted him about it.

    I am so thankful you all don’t remember how abusive he was to me. Cynthia, you probably remember some. I might could have tolerated his “other women,” if he had been good to me, but the only good thing about him was his generosity with is money. He thought money could buy anything. He never cared how much money I spent and he never objected of us going to church. He wouldn’t go with us but he was good to help me get you all dress. I am thankful for that. He was continuously buying me things what I called “a peace offering.” He bought me a 1959 Impala Chevrolet and the transmission went out on it with only 80 miles on it. He wanted to have it fixed but I told him I didn’t want it, that I would keep my Oldsmobile. I later found out he had given it to Mildred Kelly. He also started my silver with a place setting and all the serving pieces. He could never save money. He thought it was made to spend. He lavished you all with toys. Edward you had a gun and that lovely knife by the time you were five years old. I guess it’s a good thing I was conservative and learned how to handle money, because by the time we separated I knew how far a dollar would go.

    He seemed to blame me for everything, even the fusses you all would have. He insisted I get a maid so I hired Olivia, remember her? She worked for me until we separated.

    It was in January 1960 that I knew he was having the affair with Mildred Kelly. He had to go to Washington, DC on union business. He had driven and called me on his way back to tell me he was snow bound right outside of Atlanta, Georgia and would be home when he could. I knew she was with him but when he came home he denied it. I guess he thought if I had another baby that I wouldn’t leave him, so Keith, you were on the way soon after this.

    By the summer of 1960, I knew Ed was doing things that were dishonest. He had to go to Atlanta and while he was gone, C.J. Brown, a Baton Rouge realtor, called and told me that the grass needed cutting at the house we had rented on Sevenoaks Drive. I quickly asked what was the house number and he told me. This was a shock to me, so that night I went over there. Ed came to the door but he turned out all the lights and wouldn’t let me in. The next day he told me that he was hiding dynamite for Jimmy Hoffa in that house. He also told me he was on some kind of drugs. I had called your Aunt Mil to come help me decide what to do. She came and I went home with her to Pine Bluff. Ed called everyday, begging me to come home. I was gone about two weeks, but we did go back. When I got home, I realized there was something wrong with him. He tried to keep it from me, but he finally showed me where he had been stabbed, the lowest part of his stomach, a horizontal cut about six inches long. It was always a mystery as to who did it. It needed stitches but he wouldn’t go to the doctor. He had been stabbed on his shoulder about four or five months before this. He wouldn’t tell me who did it either, but wouldn’t go to the doctor. When he left in January, the cut on his stomach had still not healed. In later years, Mrs. Rankin, one of my lawyers, said he probably was bringing in some kind of drugs in the wound. It sounded horrible to me, but I never knew.

    Keith, I didn’t think you would ever get here. All the rest of you had been three or four weeks early, so by November 1, I was ready, but you didn’t get here until November the 17th. I worried about you while I was in the hospital, not knowing if Ed would be home, but I had Olivia and she took real good care of you.

    Keith was nine days old when Ed told me he had to go to Havana, Cuba to see Fidel Castro. I didn’t believe him, but he gave me a number at the Havana Cabana Hotel for me to call. I called and talked to him, so he was there. This was another mystery. I never knew why he went. When President Kennedy was assassinated, and Lee Harvey Oswald arrested, I really thought Ed was going to be involved, but I don’t suppose there was any connection. When he got back from Cuba, there was some argument we had every day. Marge and Orlan were so good to me, helping me decide what to do. He advised me for one and a half years to stay with him. He would talk with Ed and Ed making promises not to see Mildred Kelly anymore, but finally said that she was blackmailing him. I tried to believe him, but there was always something disturbing and a mystery.

    One nite I was giving Keith a bottle. Ed was asleep. I looked down, there under the bed were his shoes with a lot of money in them. I counted it quickly, I would guess about $20,000. I put it in the drawer and the next a.m. he asked where it was. I asked him where he got it. He said it wasn’t his, that he was to pass it on to someone that was to meet him at the Palms Motel. I never knew.

    He had made several trips to Chicago, he said, and then

    <That’s where Mamma Jean ended her letter. She never finished her story. She passed away from breast cancer a few years later. – Love, Janice>
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