The One Who Shouldn't Be Alive

Chapter Three: The Future of the Past

"Goodness child, what's gotten into you?!"

Greta's voice interrupted my broken sleep the following morning. I sat up in the bed, groaning, and realized I must look a fright. I could feel my eyes were crusty and it was likely they were red from crying. I rubbed them, stiffened, and promptly turned away from her, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. She was the motherly sort, however, and in response she rounded the bed and sat next to me. One of her hands fell onto my shoulder and she peered at me in concern.

"Surely life here hasn't been that bad!" she began, and then her thumbs began to swipe at my cheeks and under my eyes. I pulled my head away but she was relentless. Eventually she produced a small handkerchief and offered that to me instead. "What's got you so set off, Miss Morris?"

"It's nothing," I spat back, and though I didn't intend it to sound so rude, I was certain it did. "Nothing important, Greta."

She grunted, indicating she didn't believe me, and then folded her hands in her lap.

"I been hearin' you ain't gonna be joinin' the President on his trip," Greta continued on, her tone conversational, but I knew she was prying nonetheless. "That's a right shame, if you ask me."

"But I didn't ask you, did I?" I snapped. "Leave me be, Greta."

I saw the dark skinned woman scowl at me, and realized then that I had started an argument.

"Now, you listen here lil' missy!" she scolded, standing up and shaking her finger at me. "Just 'cause you feelin' bad about somethin' the President said to you don't give you the right to get snippin' at me! I'm only tryin' ta help you out!"

I sighed. I knew she was right, and I wanted to apologize. I knew I should apologize. But somehow, I couldn't make myself do it. She, too, had been rude in her assertions, after all.

"Please, Greta," I said quietly instead, shaking my head at her. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Neither does yer President," she bit back. "I 'spect you've offended him a right bit refusin' ter go with him ter Cuba."

"Cuba is a dangerous place in the best of times," I replied, growing increasingly irritated. "And these are hardly the best of times."

"Yer missin' the point, Miss Morris," Greta continued on, crossing her arms. "Maybe the Presiden' said this to ya, maybe he didn't. I might be jus' a maid here, but I still hear things. The administration seems ter be thinkin' you won' be safe 'ere in the White House once the Presiden' makes his trip."

"Yes, Greta, I know—"

She held up a hand to silence me.

"If the smartes' minds in this country think you'll be safer somewheres else, Miss Morris, you'd best be listenin' ta them!" She tossed the handkerchief onto the bed again. "Now, clean yerself up, and get yerself packin'."

I could see out the window of my stateroom the procession of black Cadillacs and the agents bustling around them. My single suitcase was packed and rested on my bed, waiting to be taken into my hand. Against my better judgment I had listened to Greta, if only because I had seen her frustration—and her worry—at the fact that I had refused the President's request. She seemed to know something I did not, and that in itself was bothersome enough to spur me into action.

That...that and the President's words.

May you forgive my desire to return the favor.

Irritated at the twist in my gut as I heard him speak the words again in my head, I snatched my suitcase and left the stateroom, making my way down the hallway to stand at the front door and await the individuals who would be joining John Kennedy on his trip to Cuba. I didn't wait long, perhaps five minutes, and I looked up almost instinctively at the precise moment John Kennedy and two agents rounded the corner and came into the hallway.