Read Online "Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald by Douglas Brode - Free Book Online Page A

Lee had been shooting for pleasure for several years now. With training, he might become good. A sharpshooter, perhaps. Special. Superior at something. Finally.
    Maybe he too could kill 27 men? There wasn’t a war going on right now. Things quieted down after the Korean conflict came to its unsatisfying conclusion back in 1953. Chances were, another would start up somewhere.
    Hadn’t some senator stated on the news that America might have to make our stand against the Reds in Southeast Asia?
    Why wait for it to begin? Join now. Be prepared, like one of those despicable Boy Scouts who refused to accept me into their troop for reasons best left unremembered.
    â€œLouisiana white trash,” they’d taunted him in Fort Worth.
    That’s alright. He’d show ‘em, now that he had a sense of direction. That’s what Lee had always needed. Well, here it was.
    As soon as he exited the auditorium Lee would locate a recruiting office and sign up. The thought of doing so had been there for some time, if in a vague form.
    Now, the idea of becoming a marine coalesced, defining him.
    *
    Precisely what had pushed Johnny Barrows over the edge? the sheriff wanted to know. With that, the snotty grin disappeared. Suddenly, he appeared vulnerable. “A man can stand for so much and no more,” the little guy whined to the all-American giant. “Before the war, I drifted ... and drifted.”
    Like me! Seventeen homes, to use that term loosely, in fifteen years. Born on Alva Street, New Orleans. Over to 1242 Compass less than a year later. 1010 Bartholomew in another six months. Ninety or so days after settling in there, 83 Pauline Street, followed shortly by a rush to 111 Sherwood.
    At that point, Marguerite temporarily threw up her hands in dismay. Off to a Bethlehem sorely lacking in Jesus. Two years later, God alone knowing where she's been, Marguerite shows up. “Lee? Pack your stuff. We’re moving to Texas,” she announces in her jaunty way. Three weeks later, 4801 Victor Street in Dallas.
    No good! Two months after, Granbury Rd., Fort Worth. Wait! “Texas was a huge mistake.” Back to Louisiana, 311 Vermont Street in Covington. “No!” Back to the Lone Star. 1505 Eighth Ave., Fort Worth; January ’47, 3300 Willing Street; in four months time across town to San Saba Street. The following summer, 7408 Ewing.
    â€œLee? Pack up your stuff. We’re moving to New York!”
    Crumbling tenements. Filthy streets. Rats in the corridors. 325 East 92nd Street in August ’52; 1455 Sheridan Ave. in the Bronx by September. Youth House next. Something out of Dickens, who captures the unfairness of society like no other writer.
    An avid reader, Lee had already consumed Oliver Twist, Hard Times , and Bleak House . Despite the dyslexia that made reading difficult, even painful, Lee tore through book after book.
    Hey, at least it can’t get any worse. Right? Wrong.
    â€œWe made a huge mistake,” Marguerite wails. “Gotta get back to our Southern roots!”
    So it's 757 French Street, New Orleans, January ’54. Right town, wrong location. 1454 Saint Mary Street. Maybe we can stay here a while? “I don’t know. There’s a nice apartment opening up over on Exchange Place. Lee? Why are you sobbing?”
    â€œDrifted and ran,” Johnny Barrows continued. Lee knew that feeling. Oh, how he loved watching Sinatra. Like Lee, Frankie was short. Lee spent hours staring into a mirror, wondering what Sinatra had that he lacked.
    A Voice. That was it. His singing talent had provided a skinny kid from New Jersey with the key to moving up and out. Lee was not blessed with such a genius-level vocal instrument.
    Maybe that’s alright. All I gotta do now is figure out what I’ve got that no one else has. Some hidden gift, an undiscovered skill. Who, after all, is Johnny Barrows? Sinatra without the voice but with a gun. Johnny got his gun? Fine. Lee