Those clouds did mean trouble!
The sea that Jack and his sister faced that September afternoon was not the sea of summer sailing, yacht clubs, catboats, and cabin cruisers. It was the sea of the clipper ships and the whaling vessels. It was the sea of wind-lashed headlands and fierce waters, a place of raging gales and booming surf.
One moment the sky had been tranquil and serene. The next, it had suddenly darkened. The air turned bitter. The wind struck like a hammer. The sea became darkly, threateningly blue, inky in color. The breaking waves looked vicious, bleak, and sullen.
Without warning, a dense fog closed in, hugging the surface of the sea. Gray, thick, and soupy as the fog was, Jack could still see the angry waters below. He knew he should be scared, but there just wasn’t time! He had to get the boat and his sister back to safe harbor! He had to!
On the shore in Hyannis Port, Joe Jr. stood on the Kennedy dock with his father, peering anxiously out into the expanse of nothing.
Although they both knew Jack was an expert sailor, they also knew that he was only thirteen and his sister barely ten. This was a dangerous fog, a dangerous storm. The fishermen called it a dungeon fog, the dread of all the men who go down to the sea in ships.
Joe Jr. leaned against the wet post of the dock, drenched by the surf. He listened. He waited. Without meaning to, he shivered.
“Of course, they are all right,” he said.
His father echoed, “Of course.” But his eyes were miserable.
“Jack has brought that boat through worse weather than this,” Joe Jr. said with a heartiness that fooled neither of them. “He’s brought her in a thousand times!”
“A thousand times,” his father repeated, his voice pinched and strained.
The moments passed slowly, dragging into hours. Both father and son were startled by the whistle of the Nantucket steamer. That whistle, low and resonant, could be cheerful on a bright sunny day, or romantic on a moonlit night. But in this dense fog, the sound was sharp and melancholy, like a warning.
Finally, the surf died down. So did the wind. But still the fog did not lift.
Suddenly, out of the grayness came the little sailboat, her bow sheering the water cleanly, heading straight to the dock as if drawn by a taut string.
Kathleen, white-faced and drawn, gave Jack a weak smile before she stepped on the dock.
Jack seemed as calm as if he’d been steering through the glories of a flaming sunset.
“Thick out there this afternoon,” he said casually as he brushed the hair out of his eyes and staggered wearily toward the house.
CANTERBURY TALES
THE COMMON ROOM at Canterbury’s North House was full of boys doing exactly the same thing, writing a letter home. Jack Kennedy chewed his pencil, looked up at the ceiling.
“Psst,” he whispered to the boy sitting next to him. “How do you spell literary?”
“L-i-t—” the boy began, “—r-y, I think.”
“Are you sure that’s right?” Jack asked.
“If you’ve got to be sure, ask the dictionary, not me. Can’t you use another word?”
“Hardly,” Jack replied. “Not when I’m asking my dad to send me the Literary Digest.”
Although the school library stocked magazines and newspapers, Jack wanted to have his own look at current affairs. He missed the talks around the dinner table at home, the give-and-take discussions of the past, the present, and the future.
Laboriously, he kept at his letter. “We are reading Ivanhoe,” he wrote, “and although I may not be able to remember material things such as gloves, tickets, and so forth, I can remember Ivanhoe, and the last time we had an English exam, I got a ninety-eight.”
He drummed the table with his pencil, then started to write swiftly. “More good news. I can swim like a fish. Fifty yards in thirty seconds. The swimming coach thinks swimming is very important because it’s a sport that can save lives. I never thought of it that way but I guess he is right. Who knows? Someday my being able to swim may save my life. Or better yet, somebody else’s!”
The boy frowned. He was duty bound to write about his Latin marks. Perhaps if he tucked his grades in between the swimming item and the ninety-eight in English—
“Mr. Brodie,” he wrote, “says I can do better than this in Latin. As a matter of fact, Mr. Brodie thinks anybody can do better than this. But Mr. Brodie is a Rhodes Scholar and very bright. He actually likes Latin!”
Jack thought a moment, then continued, “He told all of us in his Latin class that most people consider Latin the beginning of a liberal education. Then he sort of smiled and said, ‘If you young sprouts don’t study Latin, you just won’t get into college!’ I guess he knew that would get through to us. It did to me.”
Young Kennedy sat back in his chair. That last line, he thought, was a stroke of genius. It might convince his father that Jack was studying. The boy shook his head and sighed. His father was not easily convinced, he knew, nor easily fooled.
Purposefully, he wrote, “I’m going to try and get my marks up in Latin. I really mean it this time.”
That would please his father. For his mother, he wrote, “If I knew more about Latin, I could understand the Latin part of the Mass. I’m getting very pious with chapel so often. I’m also cold at night. Please send up a puff.”
The second part of his letter was important to him. At Christmas, just before starting back to Canterbury for the second term, Jack had finally got up courage enough to ask his father for a larger allowance.
Mr. Kennedy had been in the library poring over papers when the boy knocked on the door. Although Jack had prepared a polished speech for the occasion, he forgot it completely when the time finally arose.
Fidgeting with the button on his jacket, he blurted out, “Dad, how about a raise?”
Mr. Kennedy leaned back in his chair and looked at Jack over his horn-rimmed glasses. “Well, how about it? I presume you mean a raise in your marks?”
Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Not exactly. I was thinking about a raise in my allowance.”
“Hmmmm.” Mr. Kennedy appeared to think it over. Was he serious? Or joking? Jack just couldn’t tell.
“You think you need a raise in your allowance,” Mr. Kennedy went on. “I think you need to raise your marks. Perhaps we can get together. Why don’t you put down in writing all the reasons that make you think you deserve a raise?”
Now in Canterbury’s Common Room, Jack was doing just that. He had crossed out, written over, and erased. Finally he set his jaw, took another sheet of paper, and wrote:
Plea for a Raise
“My recent allowance is 40¢. This I used for airplanes and other playthings of childhood but now I am a Scout and I put away my childish things. Before I would spend 20¢ of my 40¢ allowance and in five minutes, I would have empty pockets and nothing to gain and 20¢ to lose.
“When I am a Scout, I have to buy canteens, haversacks, blankets, searchlights, ponchos—things that will last for years and I can always use them while I can’t use chocolate marshmallow ice-cream sundaes. So I put in my plea for a raise of 30¢ for me to buy Scout things and pay my own way around.”
He read it over, changed a word, sealed the letter quickly, and headed for his room.
It was Saturday. For one whole hour in the afternoon, Canterbury boys were allowed to go out on the town. The Village Green swarmed with young men who had saved up their money through the week for a chocolate soda, a candy bar, or a malt.
Eating between meals was strictly forbidden at Canterbury, and no food was ever allowed in the rooms. These rules and regulations made the Saturday hour in New Milford seem like an oasis in the desert. The sight of the Village Green with its towering elms and maples, its old-fashioned Victorian bandstand, and its corner drugstore was a glimpse of Utopia.
Jack stopped in the room across the hall to borrow a stamp for his letter. A redheaded, freckle-faced boy was sprawled out on the window seat, unhappily watching the motionless fr
og on the sill.
“What’s the matter, Tim? Has Mr. Brodie flunked you in Latin again?”
“Nothing so simple as that,” the boy answered. “It’s my frog. Frisky just isn’t living up to his name any more. He’s droopy.”
“All frogs are droopy in cold weather,” Jack said. “What do you feed him?”
“Oh, all the things you’re supposed to feed frogs. Flies, spiders. I even fed him a fly covered with red pepper,” Tim went on. “Didn’t pep him up.”
“Why don’t you set off a firecracker under him?” Jack asked with a chuckle.
“That’s not funny,” Tim replied. “I already tried it. Frisky didn’t even wiggle, but I got two demerits when the housemaster heard all the racket. Think of something else.”
“Well, maybe old Frisky’s number is up.”
“Oh gosh, no!” Tim was horrified.
“Nobody can live forever. Not even frogs.”
“I wanted to keep him to show my little brother when I go home for Easter vacation.”
“Keep him then,” Jack said unsympathetically.
“How can I keep him if he’s dead?”
“Easy. The Science Master keeps his frogs in the lab all year long. They look alive but they are stone-cold dead. Preserved.”
“Jack, maybe you’ve got something!” Tim was elated. “If you can preserve a dead frog, why can’t you preserve a live one? Droopy this frog may be, but he’s alive. Just think, Jack, if Frisky could be preserved before he dies, then maybe he’d never die!”
Jack looked skeptical. “The science lab is closed for the weekend. You can’t preserve him today and he may not last until Monday. If we knew what was in that stuff, we could brew up a batch and toss Frisky into the brine.”
“Brine!” Tim said the word and snapped his fingers with glee. “Brine! That’s it, Jack! Pickles come in brine. You know the grocery store halfway down the hill? Booth’s? We’ll preserve Frisky in Booth’s pickle barrel. Want to come along, Jack?”
“Sure, but remind me to mail this letter to my dad on the way. Got an extra stamp? After we plop Frisky into the pickle barrel, we could hike down to the drugstore and get a chocolate marshmallow sundae. By the time we’re back, Frisky ought to be pretty well pickled.”
This is just what Jack and Tim did—or tried to do. Jack stood guard, shielding Tim from sight of the clerk in Booth’s store. Tim took Frisky out of his pocket and, when no one was looking, dropped the frog into the pickles.
The boys shook hands gravely.
“Well done, my good man,” Tim said, politely.
“Nothing to it, old chap,” Jack replied.
He held the door for the stout lady who entered the grocery store just as they were leaving. Then, licking their lips in anticipation, the boys headed down the hill toward the drugstore and their chocolate sundae. Halfway across the street, they were halted by the bloodcurdling scream that echoed from Booth’s. They looked at each other, mystified. With one accord, the two boys dashed back to the store.
They were just in time to hear the stout lady screech, “Those pickles are alive!” With a thud and a thump that shook the grocery shelves, she fell to the floor.
Immediately the place was in an uproar. The two boys standing in the doorway were strangely silent, but nobody noticed them.
“Somebody do something!” a girl screamed.
The clerk leaped from behind the counter, wringing his hands helplessly. “Please!”
“Giv ’er air!” a woman shouted.
“Ladies, please control yourselves,” the clerk said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
“Water! She needs water.”
“Ladies, please!” The clerk was desperate.
“Giv ’er air!” the woman shouted again.
In the midst of all the excitement, the incredible happened. Frisky, the frog, came leaping out of the pickle barrel.
Everyone yelled at once. Tim and Jack edged toward the entrance door.
“Those pickles are alive!”
“Ladies, please control yourselves.”
“Call the police.”
One frantic matron pushed the red button saying EMERGENCY ONLY. There was a loud clang. The old-fashioned burglar alarm went off and the overhead fire sprinkler suddenly started to spray.
The tomcat that was always sunning himself in Booth’s window moved quickly for once—too quickly. He scooted between the aisles, tripping two of the frightened customers and knocking over a display of tunafish. A towering pyramid of soup cans swayed precariously, then came tumbling down with a crash. The cans rolled noisily in every direction.
The frog seemed to have more sense than any of the people. Frisky just hopped over by the door. Without even a backward look, Jack and Tim joined their frog friend and walked casually out into the chill February air.
In a few moments, the two boys, a trifle shaken but convulsed with laughter, were on their way back up the hill to Canterbury.
“These pickles are alive,” Tim shrieked in a high falsetto.
“Please control yourself!” Jack mimicked the clerk’s nervous tones exactly.
“Frisky isn’t droopy any more, Jack. He’s hopping up and down all over my pocket!”
“Wonder what did it?” Jack was enjoying himself. “Was it the pickling? Or the yelling!”
TURKEY TALK
AROUND THE THANKSGIVING table, heads were bowed in grace. One pair of eyes was not closed. Jack Kennedy just had to watch over the huge turkey in front of his father’s place!
Mr. Kennedy picked up the carving knife. “Who wants a drumstick?”
Nine children had the same answer, from seventeen-year-old Joe Jr. to nine-month-old Teddy. Teddy couldn’t speak, but his “da” meant “I do” just as the others’ words did.
“Someday,” Jack said, his mouth full of turkey, “somebody ought to invent a turkey with at least a dozen legs. Sort of a cross between a turkey and a centipede. Just imagine, Thanksgiving and each one of us with a drumstick!”
“Please don’t talk with your mouth full, Jack,” Mrs. Kennedy said, “and pass the cranberries.”
“Jack, you sound just like Bobby’s pig when you eat so fast!” Kick said.
“Don’t talk that way about Porky!” Bobby said. “Porky’s the best pet I ever had.”
“Whoever heard of a pig for a pet?”
“I have, that’s who!” Bobby was on the defensive. “Porky’s my best pet.”
“Quit this Porky talk!” Jack warned, “or we’ll all wind up speaking pig latin!”
“Never mind the pig latin,” Mr. Kennedy said. “How’s your real Latin shaping up, Jack?”
The boy shifted uneasily. “Well, now that Mr. Morgan is teaching me, I’m passing. He says I could be a good Latin student.”
“That’s not what I asked you, Jack. I know you could be a good Latin student. You could be a good student in every class at Choate. But this doesn’t mean you are!” His father looked at him sharply. “What Mr. Morgan thinks you could do in Latin, what Mr. Packard figures you ought to do in French, what Russ Ayres and Mr. Hemenway think you should be getting in history—none of this matters unless you do something about it yourself!”
Joe Jr. spoke up. “Cappy Leinbach says Jack can do well in anything he really wants to do.”
“Who is Cappy Leinbach?” Rosemary asked.
“Rosemary! That’s sacrilege! Cappy Leinbach is one of the most important people at Choate! To me, anyhow. He’s the best football coach in the Junior League. Teaches algebra,” Jack said.
“Why does he know so much about you?”
“He was a housemaster at Choate House last year while Jack roomed there,” Joe Jr. said.
“Not only that, but my bedroom was right next to the Leinbachs’ living room,” Jack added with a grin. “We used to have some terrific bull sessions. I’ll never forget them. Used to have some terrific waffle sessions, too, and I won’t forget those, either. The Choate catalog ought to list Mrs. Leinbach’s
Sunday night waffles as an extracurricular activity.”
“Bet you didn’t get away with much, not if you roomed right next to the housemaster,” Kick said.
“Nope,” Jack said as he reached for another slice of turkey, “but I tried.”
“Haven’t stopped trying, have you?” His father looked at Jack over his horn-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Maher writes you were caught going out over the windowsill after lights out. I don’t like that sort of letter from a housemaster.”
Jack flushed. “It seemed like a terrific idea at the time. Lem Billings and I went down the Hill to O. D. Footes’ for a chocolate marshmallow sundae. Nobody gets away with anything at Choate!”
“A lot of them try,” Joe Jr. said. “A fifth-former was expelled for smoking last week.”
“That no-smoking rule is a good thing,” Mr. Kennedy said firmly. “I’ll make a bargain with each one of you. If you won’t smoke or drink until you are twenty-one, I’ll write out a check for $1000 and hand it over to you on your twenty-first birthday. If you’ve kept the bargain, you can keep the check. But I’ll expect it back if you’ve ever smoked or had a drink.”
“That’s only six years for me to wait,” Jack said, “But poor Teddy here will have to stick around for twenty-one more years.”
“Cappy Leinbach may have taught you algebra, Jack, but you still can’t count,” Joe said. “Teddy was born in February, remember?”
“How could anybody forget a brother born on Washington’s birthday? Who knows? Maybe Ted will grow up to be president,” Jack said.
“That’s Joe’s job,” Mr. Kennedy said. “Joe is going to be president.”
Jack grinned. “If Joe’s going to be president, he may have to hire a cigarette holder even if he doesn’t smoke. That cigarette holder of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s is a trademark.”
“I don’t care who smokes,” Kick said. “It’s a silly, smelly habit.”
“Off with your head, Kick. You’re talking about our newly elected president,” Jack said.
“Isn’t Mr. Hoover president?” Pat asked.
“Herbert Hoover is president, Pat, but only until March fourth. Then Mr. Roosevelt will be inaugurated,” Mr. Kennedy explained. “First Democrat in twenty years! This makes your grandfather Fitzgerald happy, but I wish Grandpa Kennedy could have lived to see this day. He was afraid America would never get a Democrat in the White House again. I was beginning to have the same fear.”
John F. Kennedy Page 5
