I Shot JFK

by Jake Aaron

  I am in business. The next day I board a flight to Fiji, then Port Vila, Vanuatu. I am grateful for the stopover at Fiji. Life is already slowing down from the big city pace of LA. While I have a two hour layover, I fear I might not get my second cup of coffee in time for the flight to Vanuatu. That’s how slow people are moving here. As I sip on the second cup of coffee, I survey the airport cafe for anyone suspicious following me. Not a soul — but a good operative wouldn’t appear suspicious.

  As I reflect on my mental state, I realize that my survival instincts and planning have pushed out my grieving thoughts for Gunnar. Is the subconscious so powerful that it sets up other troubles to displace unbearable personal pain? Someday a psychiatric residency?

  Vanuatu

  The aircraft’s descent into Efate, the third largest island of Vanuatu, is spectacular. Each island in the group looks like an emerald, ringed by turquoise, set in a gigantic Yogo sapphire. I can tell I will need to expand my interests in water sports. Overriding all, where will I shoot? I notice the neurotic thought helpfully intrudes to hide my impending feelings of desperation. My real priorities should be to avoid being tracked and to adjust to my new home.

  I find a room at a local hotel in Port Vila, and vow to stay on Efate until I can put down roots. I sit in the hotel lobby and begin my letter to Aunt Cece:

  Dear Aunt Cece,

  I am sorry you have not heard from me for so long. I am writing to you from Vanuatu, where I will be for the near future. Vanuatu is an island nation in the South Pacific, about 1000 miles east of Australia. We flew west from Fiji to get here. I am planning on working in a small clinic away from the bigger towns.

  I also apologize for being so secretive. I had to leave medical school suddenly. I made the mistake of being too helpful. I was eating at an Italian restaurant when a man was shot. I ran over to stop the bleeding. The son of the wounded man saw that I knew what I was doing and thought I was a doctor. I could not convince him otherwise, nor could I sell the idea of going to a hospital. At gunpoint, I left with an entourage to a safe house. There was a very credible threat that, if the dad died, so would I.

  The power of the captor group was amazing. Anything reasonable that I needed for medical care, I got within half an hour. I managed to keep the man alive for several days by staying up and working without sleep. I established a little rapport with one of my watchers who sent me outside to get some air. I escaped and have not looked back since.

  I did not go back to my apartment. I got my papers and cash from my bank deposit box. This is not fiction. It is a real threat. I would like to wish the situation away, but we cannot. The man died. I saw his obituary in a newspaper en route.

  Let’s leave off return addresses from our mail to each other. Vanuatu and Alamogordo stick out like sore thumbs. I don’t want someone noticing either of those at the small postal facilities that serve us both. I’ll write you and Uncle Walt at your Holloman AFB work address. I won’t write too often. If someone at work challenges personal mail coming to you at work, tell them you’ve told your mother several times to use your home address but that she’s forgetful. I’ll let you know when I have an address.

  I know discussing planning to see you again is premature, but I’m thinking we should meet in some place in Australia or New Zealand in the future to avoid connecting at an obvious location like Alamogordo or its vicinity. Let me know your thoughts.

  Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around or following either you or Uncle Walt? These people are very clever. The gangsters themselves are not stereotypical — very sophisticated, though high-handed. Remember you haven’t seen me or heard from me since August. I think I am safe here. I can’t wait to see you two again!

  Love,

  Alex

  *****

  I rise early the next morning to enjoy the cloudless night sky. I still feel guilty about lying to Aunt Cece about why I’m on the run. Opening the shades of my hotel window, that guilt is chased away by a magnificent sight. I marvel at the bright stars piercing the darkness of space. I realize it is a display unlike I have observed before. For the first time, I see the Southern Cross. It is a long way from Alamogordo.

  After breakfast, I rent a car to drive around the island. I need to get away from Port Vila, the biggest city on the island of Efate and in the nation of Vanuatu. As I try to speak to some locals, I am befuddled by Bislama, a creole language. Spoken very fast, the pidgin English defies my understanding, even though its composition is mostly of English origin with some French and other island languages thrown in. If Efate is typical of Vanuatu, this is a third-world country with the few rich living in villas and an the many others living very close together in poverty. Political and economic considerations aside, the raw beauty of the island is enchanting.

  I find what I am looking for on the north side of the island. The doctor in the clinic is French and in his 50s. He speaks English, but he likes that I want to practice my French. After Latin, I had taken two years of high school French and Italian. He is eager to get a partner since his other one has returned to France. My credentials are fine with him. He has taught medicine at the Sorbonne in Paris. He offers to teach me as an intern. He also observes that I probably can teach him a lot, owing to my recent degree. I let him know I am engaged to someone back in the United States. Lie upon lie.

  At supper that night with him and nurse Monique, Dr. Maurice Aurand gives me his first piece of advice, “Drink wine. Do not drink the kava kava. The variety served in Vanuatu is notoriously strong. As you know, the drink contains psychoactive alkaloids. Literally, the name of its plant source means intoxicating pepper. Its taste is unpleasant. Its effect can be to leave its drinker unconscious for up to two days. Leave it for your patients to consume, not you.”

  *****

  It works out well for Dr. Aurand and me to spell each other occasionally. He tells me we really get very few cases that I cannot handle without him. Despite that, in my second week, Dr. Aurand has gone to town. A seven-year-old girl needs an emergency appendectomy. I have seen the procedure and know human anatomy intimately from studying Frank Netter’s unsurpassed drawings. I am a tough critic: I grade myself A+ for precision. I was a C- for speed. I’m sure I can do each succeeding operation in half the time until I reach my personal limit. Dr. Aurand’s nurse, Monique, tells him I am a better surgeon than he is. She gets away with such because I think she’s sleeping with him. I, however, depend more on his good graces, so I look to flatter him to offset her remarks. My nurse, Viktoria, is not nearly so bold as Monique. She is a native of Vanuatu and very proper.

  In my daily scan of my on-the-lam life, I realize I might need a visa to stay in Vanuatu, though no one has mentioned it. Dr. Aurand is reassuring.

  “Joan, you do not have to worry. One, you have a critically needed skill. Two, I have friends here. In the local culture, knowing someone counts many times more than what is written on paper, not that government can’t be bureaucratic, even here. I will have a friend get you a visa. Here’s to many renewals of that visa!” He handed me a glass of some very good red wine.

  *****

  In my third week at the clinic, I lay out a one-year plan to build my medical knowledge. With questions to the staff and records, I plan out the critical 20% of diseases and injuries that constitute 80% of the visits at the clinic. I study those first. These are the horses my instructors told me about in medical school — the common occurrences. I occasionally reward myself by studying the zebras — the uncommon cases — that can eat your professional lunch. Leptospirosis fascinates me. It is a zebra.

  In my fourth week of work, I borrow Dr. Aurand’s Citroen, an odd-looking French car. I set out to see more of Efate, my new island home. My open car window lets in the fragrance of sandalwood. The pleasant woodsy smell is refreshing and calming. Further down the road, like a screaming siren in a quiet library, the island’s bright orange flame trees loudly call for my attention. They virtually fluoresce from the deep green, lush back
drop. I stop and stare at them for ten minutes. As I drive on, I see a virtual floral shop of natural flowers, including the orchid, bird of paradise, ginger, anthurium, bougainvillea, gardenia, and hibiscus, to name a few. I see only a smattering of birds, although Viktoria says there are 121 species — some very brightly colored.

  Eventually, I decide I need some exercise. I board a boat that takes me to the sheltered reefs of Mele Bay. I go over the side of the boat to snorkel in the pristine salt water, beginning a meditation on nature. The coral is spectacular. The tropical fish are a rainbow of colors. I even see giant live sea clams. The shells remind me of the ones Dad’s Air Force friends brought back from the nuclear tests near Bikini Atoll. Several dugong swim underneath me. The dugongs are cousins of the manatee. As I wade to shore, I encounter several sea turtles. After two hours of aquatic wonder, I resume my terrestrial excursion.

  The beauties of the rainforests and seascapes awe me. More surprisingly, I notice a few cases of Melanesian children with blonde hair. I would never have expected to see this. It would shock me if rural islanders took the trouble to peroxide their children’s hair in the name of fashion. I must ask Dr. Aurand about the incongruent hair.

  Later, Dr. Aurand tells me that this phenomenon is also seen in the Melanesian children of the Solomon Islands, almost 1000 miles away. He has heard from reliable sources that one in four children there sport the lighter hair. Was there a mixing of races? Is the blond hair a bleaching effect from living close to the equator? Or is it a chance mutation that has propagated?

  “We do not know, Joan. It is a wonder to see, no? C’est la vie, Joan,” Dr. Aurand responds. “Usually we also see dark eyes to accompany the dark skin, despite the blonde hair.”

  *****

  In my third month, I have what I need. I ask Dr. Aurand to order 7.5 x 54mm ammunition for his French FR F1 rifle through a local general store. I want to downplay my interest in shooting for obvious reasons. Dr. Aurand is happy to oblige: “Everyone here from the outside has some secret or is hiding from someone. I will hold this secret as if it were my own.” From his melancholy tone saying that, I can only guess why he left France. It’s easy to look down on someone who goes into exile until that someone is you.

  I find shooting during the work week — well into the jungle — helps keep my secret. There is nothing like being very good at something and enjoying it. I keep counting my blessings. The FR F1 has a built-in bipod with adjustable legs. It is a very stable platform to shoot from. Firing that rifle connects me to Gunnar and my parents. It is a welcome diversion from thoughts of my precarious situation in life. Every night before I fall asleep, I relish reliving each shot of my last session: the sighting in, trigger pull, the boom, recoil, and bull’s-eye.

  Dr. Aurand insists he and I must go shooting together sometime. I act as if I want to, but know I will have to purposely miss sometimes while shooting with him to avoid becoming an object of discussion. Over time, I realize it is just wishful thinking on his part. Our community needs one of us available all the time. We may not be “good people,” but we are good doctors. It dawns on me that I now consider myself a full-fledged physician. My opinion is what matters.

  Before my next day off, Dr. Aurand gives me his rifle: “You are its natural owner.” I love my FR F1. Its a very precise sniper rifle. Its range is up to 800 meters; its projectile velocity is 1745 miles per hour — both adequate. I am so fortunate to have its scope, as well. This “time baton” connects me to my past whenever I hold it in my room. I wonder what it connects me with in the future.

  *****

  One slow day, Vanuatu’s Independence Day — July 30 — we leave Viktoria in charge of the clinic. Most of our potential patients have gone to Port Vila to celebrate. Dr. Aurand, Monique, and I go to a nearby beach for a picnic. It is a balmy 80-degree day — a sunny blessing during the rainy season. We enjoy my fried chicken, Monique’s tiramisu, and Dr. Armand’s red wine and bread. Since not one of us wants to speak of the past, we break the unspoken ground rule about discussing work and patients. Our self-awareness makes us all laugh at once. Being in the present is not all bad.

  “Joan, you are a truly great doctor and partner,” Dr. Aurand says after his second glass of wine. “Frankly, I am very pleased that you have stayed. Several of your predecessors could not handle our island life. They start out explaining how the insular geography gives them a sense of claustrophobia. After that, they cite a string of minor annoyances, and then they are gone. That said, I must say again how grateful I am that you have stayed. I have a gift for you when we get home. I think you will like it.”

  “I look forward to that,” I reply, wondering what is up.

  When we get back to the clinic, Viktoria immediately accosts me. “A child has severe neck trauma. He fell on his bike’s handlebars. I think you need to do a tracheotomy.”

  While I have never done one, I have total confidence I can perform the procedure.

  “Joan, let me take this one. You go ahead and wash the sand off. Monique will help me,” Dr. Aurand steps in.

  “I have done several of these, but seeing a master at work would be my pleasure.” I don’t know why I bluff, except that lying has become second nature to me. “Let me assist. I’ll scrub in,” I answer.

  “Not a bad idea to have two doctors, considering our lunch beverage,” Dr. Aurand offers.

  “You find my tiramisu that intoxicating, Maurice?” Monique jests.

  “I do, my dear, but not as much as you. Joan’s present will have to wait!”

  *****

  The surgery reinforces my confidence in knowing what to do. I definitely could have done the surgery on my own, though not as proficiently.

  Afterward, we go to the second garage that has been closed and locked since my arrival. Inside is a white 1962 Citroen ID19. Dr. Aurand smiles. “This is now your car to drive. I want you to enjoy it. It is just like mine. You won’t have to ask to borrow one anymore. You have earned it.”

  “I am so pleasantly surprised,” I sincerely reply. Mentally, I tally another blessing. Now I won’t have to go through the machinations of stealthily getting my rifle in and out of Dr. Aurand’s car when I go to shoot. I can now keep the rifle in the trunk of my car. I’m still not wild about anyone besides Dr. Aurand knowing I have a rifle, much less how often I like to fire. For sure, no one should know how good a marksman I am.

  *****

  A week later, I return from my walk on the beach. I am greeted with, “Happy Birthday!”

  I am truly surprised. It is not my November 22 one. May 12 is Joan Smith’s birthday. I am pleased that I acted surprised because I normally have a flat affect. Good to make the party-throwers happy. It is also a wake-up call that I am getting complacent about my situation.

  I should have had my facts on Joan Smith’s life more current in my mind and on the tip of my tongue. I can think of no reason to believe that a powerful cabal is not trying to hunt me down and eliminate me. My self-corrective nature resolves to review Joan’s facts more often and to do a mental role play on my daily hour-long walks on the beach. While my memory is very good, like everyone I know, recency of thought speeds my recall. I do try to vary the timing of that walk and other routines so I can avoid being too predictable.

  I still wonder whether there is some way to communicate to my pursuers that I am not a threat, that they don’t have to eliminate me. Or, is there a way to tell them I have multiple letters to be released in event of my death, disclosing my role in the assassination with their names? I don’t have their names, and I don’t have a method to tell only them what is necessary. Clearly, without their identities, my posthumous declarations would sound like the rant of a maniac. I try not to be to obsessed with what is out of my control. I know that obsession would be the path to madness and self-destruction.

  *****

  While I was despondent before about my situation, I am beginning to delight in my new place in life. Mine is a classic case of good-out-of-bad — seren
dipity. I like my life on the island. I love the slower pace of life. No one has pursued me — so far.. I have honored and respected work. I like my colleagues. I like my walks along the beech. I enjoy the colonial buildings, casinos, and open-air markets in the heart of Port Vila. When I get “island fever,” I take a boat ride to the outer islands of Vanuatu. I get to fire my rifle often. What more could a girl want?

  Don’t say a man. A relationship, even a casual affair, would be fraught with unforeseen consequences. Questions would arise. Lies would be uncovered. Aliases would be destroyed. Should I bet my life?

  I think having Dr. Aurand as a friend is a big part of my happiness. He accepts me unconditionally. Say what you will about the French not being willing to die for their country, I think Dr. Aurand would die for me. Since the loss of Gunnar, I have not had that feeling of trust in another person. Glen was close, but I will never know whether he valued me over his mission.

  Australia

  While I have carved out a new life for myself in Vanuatu, I miss seeing Uncle Walt and Aunt Cece. I know that they miss our family connection, too, — perhaps more than I. They agree to meet me in Sydney, Australia, in September. When they get to Sydney, they board the next connecting flight to Perth, over 2000 miles away. With seats near the door of the pending flight to Perth, they deplane just as the stewardess is starting to close the aircraft door.