Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,117
director of the Home for Children Without Parents and Family in Oriente Province, Cuba, the nun has feared in recent years that without additional funds she would be forced to close the facility, which is home to one hundred children. “But then, what would the children do?” she would ask herself.
As Sister Evelina left the building for her morning walk yesterday, she found a briefcase on the orphanage’s front doorstep. Thinking the briefcase had been left by accident, Sister Evelina brought it inside and opened it to see if she could find the identity of its owner. But to her surprise, the briefcase contained stacks of United States hundred dollar bills, adding up to $100,000. A note found with the money said simply, “For the children.”
Sister Evelina contacted the Archdiocese of Santiago de Cuba, local authorities, and several newspapers in hope of discovering the identity of the benefactor. She wonders if the donor could be someone raised at the orphanage. All the nun knows for certain is that the orphanage now can be kept open indefinitely.
“It is a true miracle,” she says…
EPILOGUE
“Seven Minutes to Midnight”, Tuesday, October 23, 1962
Jackie was suddenly awake.
She looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was seven minutes to midnight. She turned over and saw that the other side of the bed was empty. Jack was once again working late. She needed him, among other places, here in bed with her. They had been trying to make another baby and his current schedule wasn’t making things any easier.
She got out of bed, put on a robe, slipped on a battered pair of tennies, and then walked down the hall to the children’s bedrooms. She looked in on them, Caroline and John-John; they were both sleeping. How lovely to be a child and to be oblivious to all the frightening news that was being broadcast night and day, announcing that the U.S. and U.S.S.R. were teetering on the edge of nuclear war. She envied them their unencumbered slumber and wished that she could enjoy it as well.
Still unable to sleep, Jackie went down to the kitchen, which was empty at this hour. It had recently been remodeled, and its stainless-steel counters and appliances and hanging copper pots and pans gleamed even in the partial light. As she made herself a cup of coffee, she thought about the latest terrifying news.
Several hours ago, Jack had gone on TV to tell the nation that the Russians had placed offensive nuclear missiles in Cuba and that a naval blockade was now under way to prevent the Soviets from shipping any more offensive military weapons there. What happened when the Soviet ships already en route to Cuba would meet that blockade line tomorrow—today, actually, since it was now after midnight—was anyone’s guess at this point. Would they turn back or would they attempt to break through the blockade and quite possibly precipitate World War III?
There was a clattering from the hall and suddenly there he was in the kitchen with her. The Executive Committee meeting in the Cabinet Room must have just broken up. “Oh,” Jack said in surprise. “I was hoping one of the cooks was here.”
“Hungry?” Jackie asked.
“Starving,” said Jack, rubbing the palms of his hands together to indicate just how much. “I sure could go for a club sandwich.”
“I’ll make you one,” Jackie volunteered, happy that there was something concrete she could do for him.
She went over to the restaurant-sized refrigerator and began pulling out the makings for a sandwich: leftover turkey, bacon, tomatoes, mayonnaise, and bread. She took the bacon over to the stovetop, threw some pieces into a pan, and began frying them. As she did so, she turned to Jack, who was simultaneously leaning against the freestanding stainless-steel counter opposite the range and massaging his back, which suffered from a chronic condition exacerbated when his torpedo boat, PT-109, had been rammed by a Japanese destroyer during World War II. The injury could become further exacerbated by stress, so Jackie could imagine that her husband’s back must have been radiating constant pain since day one of the crisis.
“So how are things going?” she asked him.
He paused before answering. “It’s still touch and go. That Khrushchev is one stubborn son of a bitch. And you can say the same for his own personal Charlie McCarthy, Fidel Castro.”
Jackie had a difficult time keeping a poker face. She knew that ever since the Bay of Pigs disaster in April 1961, Jack had been looking for any chance to