November 22, 1963
It would be hard to say whether Mariah was more excited about seeing the Kennedys or getting married. But if she were forced to choose? Honestly, the Kennedys would win. Not that she would ever tell Hal.
It was his fault. She hadn’t known the president would be in Dallas until Hal surprised her with breakfast in bed and the morning paper. Her attention had locked on a photograph of the first lady, radiant in a chic white dress, beside a headline that read” Thousands Expected to Greet JFK.
Hardly daring to breathe, Mariah had asked, “What’s this?”
Hal scooted onto the bed beside her, bare chested, fresh from the shower. “The Kennedys will be riding through Dallas around lunchtime, close to the courthouse. I thought we could leave early and see them. Maybe grab a bite after.” He kissed her shoulder. “Then say I do.”
She’d given him an enthusiastic yes without saying a single word.
The drive downtown had been an adventure, but they’d found a not-so-legal parking space near the end of the motorcade route and walked as fast as possible to Dealey Plaza. And so here they were, standing behind the swarm of people at Elm and Houston, waiting for a glimpse of the Kennedys.
She so admired Mrs. Kennedy and aspired to be like her. A wife adored by her man. A loving mother to beautiful children. And–as Mariah had happily pointed out once to her unyielding father–a successful career girl, who’d made her mark with a camera!
But there was more to her fascination with the Kennedys than the wonderful model of womanhood from the first lady. It was the way the president looked at her. Whenever Mariah opened a magazine with the Kennedys on its cover, there would be a shot of the president smiling in delight at his wife, his expression showing his pleasure in having her at his side. That she made a difference in his life. Mariah hoped Hal would want that kind of marriage with her.
A bystander pushed past her, fighting for a better spot at the curb, knocking her into Hal.
“Whoa, darlin’,” he said. “Careful.”
She didn’t want to be careful, nor did she want to be crowded. They would have to find another spot where there were no bodies, no talking, and no straining to see. “We have to move.”
“Huh?”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Go.”
“Whatever you say.” He took her hand and led her up the incline to a stretch of open lawn. With no one else around, she wouldn’t worry about being jostled or blocked. But were they in the best spot? This close to the street, it would be over too quickly. If they were too far away, the first lady might not notice her.
“Let’s back up, Hal. Just a little.”
She paused three steps later, her view clear from the intersection to the bridge. “This is it.”
“Happy now?” There was laughter in his voice.
“Yes.” Please hush! What were the chances that she’d ever see Mrs. Kennedy or the president again? She had to remain focused with all her senses. Savor the moment and remember it forever.
A match rasped. Cigarette smoke curled around her. She shifted from the smell as she took in the details of the scene, determined to remember every second of the most thrilling experience of her life. Even though it had rained earlier, the weather had turned lovely. The air buzzed with conversation. The mood was festive. Their president had come to Dallas, and he’d brought the most elegant woman on earth with him.
Mariah couldn’t imagine a more perfect day for her wedding.
After months of resisting Hal’s proposals, she’d finally agreed. He’d chosen his very next day off–the Friday before Thanksgiving–to schedule the ceremony downtown, not taking a chance on her changing her mind.
“Hey, Mrs. Highcamp.”
Tossing her head, she said pertly, “I’m Miss Byrne for two more hours.”
“Countin’ down.” He nuzzled her neck. “You are beautiful.”
She felt beautiful, and that was because of her dress. She’d found it at the Goodwill store, hanging on the bargain rack, similar to something Mrs. Kennedy had worn on the cover of Life.
This wouldn’t be the wedding of Mariah’s childhood dreams. As a little girl, she’d pictured the ceremony in a cathedral, with her in a gown of satin and lace, the groom in a tux, and Father Tim performing the sacrament. But when she’d escaped North Carolina last spring, when she’d disappeared before dawn to flee with her man, she’d made new dreams.
Even though she’d only said yes a week ago, she’d managed to put together the right pieces.
Something old: white boots, a bit scuffed.
Something new–at least, new to her: an off-white wool crepe dress, tailored to fit her shape, its neckline grazing her collarbone with a cute fringed tie.
Something borrowed. Well, borrowed wasn’t exactly true. More like taken from her mother’s jewelry box years ago and never returned. A starburst brooch, sparkling with crystals, pinned to the bodice of the white wool dress to cover the reason it had been a bargain. A red wine stain.
Something blue: a beaded headband holding back her short flip of black hair.
Pa would be appalled if he could see her. A bride with an uncovered head. A courthouse instead of a church. A Baptist groom. Good Catholic girls don’t…
There were so many things good Catholic girls didn’t do. Mariah had done them all.
She peeked over her shoulder at the boy she’d followed to Texas. Her groom in his best pants and sweater. “You’re lookin’ pretty handsome yourself.”
The roar of the crowd refocused her attention. On the opposite side of the street, people stood in clusters. A family with two little boys. Three women chatting, their knees bouncing with anticipation. A man holding an umbrella, even though the rain had stopped hours ago.
“I have to get ready.” She withdrew the heavy movie camera from her purse. Something else borrowed, this time with permission. Squinting through the viewfinder, she panned the street, establishing the scene as she’d been taught. A few seconds of footage would be enough. The crowd was so heavy on Houston, she couldn’t see the road. Along Elm, it was sparser. She swept past Umbrella Man to another photographer standing on a wall, his own camera raised. She ended with a final shot of the intersection.
“Your arms are gonna get tired.” Hal’s strong body steadied hers. “I got you.”
She shivered. Wished for time to slow down. The air was fresh, the sky was blue, and the day held such promise.
“Darlin’, you won’t be able to see much with that thing in front of your face.”
Darn it all, but he was right. Mariah bit her lip and lowered the camera. She’d come to make eye contact with the first lady, if only for a moment. But if she held the camera too low, would the framing be off?
Screams and cheers erupted from Main Street, rolling over them in a wave of noise. There was no time left. She nestled the camera against her chest.
A white Ford drove past, but she hardly noticed. The nose of a dark limo, its top down, flanked by motorcycle cops, was surging around the corner like an awkward ship.
Pink! Mrs. Kennedy was wearing her pink Chanel suit! The one with the navy-blue collar and the cutest pillbox hat. Mariah loved that outfit.
The limo was nearly even with them. Was Mrs. Kennedy looking at her?
Yes! Yes, she was. The first lady waved. Mariah waved back.
Pop.
She stilled in confusion. Mariah had grown up in rural North Carolina. She recognized the crack of a rifle.
Hal’s arms tightened around her. “What the…?”
Pop.
The president clutched his throat. The first lady whipped around to face her husband.
Pop.
Mariah’s brain recorded what happened next like a series of snapshots, all in crystal-clear focus. The red mist. The president slumping sideways. Mrs. Kennedy crawling on all fours onto the limo’s trunk. A man leaping on as the limo sped away.
“Down, Mariah, down!” Hal yelled, slamming her to the ground, knocking the breath from her, tilting her view.
While the world exploded into chaos around them, she lay motionless, eyes dry and wide, her fingers tangled in grass greener and silkier than she would’ve expected.
“Darlin’, what did we just see?”
It was a stupid question. Because they knew. They’d witnessed the murder of the president.
Pain radiated up her spine as if someone hammered at its base. She welcomed the pain. It reminded her that she could feel. That what she’d seen hadn’t dulled her senses. Muffled sounds pressed against her ears. The sobs of the hordes. The shrieks of police cars. The whistle of a breeze. Her body ached fiercely, surrounded by the scent of moist dirt, Hal’s sweat, and the noxious fumes of motorcycles and fear.
She closed her eyes but couldn’t hide from the scene seared into her brain. Gaping mouths rounded by screams. Mrs. Kennedy’s horrified stare. The aftermath of three gunshots.
Why had this happened? One moment there had been joy, excitement, innocence. And hope. The next, all was lost, leaving sorrow, terror, and despair. It had taken only seconds for the world to split into before and after.
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