Harvey Porter Does Dallas (15 page)

But then, to Harvey's great astonishment, Asa Barnacle nodded his head up and down. “I have one left.”

Harvey could hardly believe his ears. How weird was this? Asa pulled the chain above the freezer and suddenly the area was very bright. “That must be a hundred-watt bulb up there.”

“It is indeed,” said Asa. “This area needs to be bright if we expect to read small labels on small vials.” He was rubbing his hands together rapidly again.

Harvey said, “Before you open that thing up, can you repeat what you said to me?”

“I said I have one specimen left from the great assassin.”

“We're talkin' Oswald here, as in Lee Harvey?”

“None other.” Then Asa opened the top of the chest. The cold air come rolling out so fast it looked like smoke. Harvey felt his pulse getting rapid. He even had a little dry-mouth.
What was this guy bringin' out?
he wondered.

What Asa brought out of the freezer were two frozen metal trays with handles on top. They gave off so much cold air that they too were like smoke. Barnacle closed the chest and set the two trays on top. He tried to wave away some of the frosty air.

He turned to Harvey and said, “It's very cold in there. Much colder than the freezers people have in their homes.”

“I can believe it,” said Harvey. Enough of the frosty air dispersed so he could see inside the trays. The vials looked like tiny test tubes. Each one had a screw-on glass top as well. Barnacle took out one of the small tubes and used his thumb to rub off enough of the frost so you could read the label. Harvey and Barnacle both peered closely. The label said,
Elton John, 7/72
.

“Isn't he like a famous person or somethin'?” asked Harvey.

“Yes he is. He's very important in the popular music industry.”

“What's the 7/72 mean?”

“That means we banked the specimen in July of 1972.”

He rubbed one off that said,
Don Meredith, 4/63
. “He was very famous too,” explained Barnacle. He was a big star for the Cowboys years ago.”

“I never heard of him,” said Harvey.

“After he retired, he was quite the television star. He was one of the announcers on Monday Night Football.”

“I still never heard of him.” Harvey was getting restless; this was going nowhere. “So whatta you have, like all famous people in here?”

“Oh no. Most of these specimens were banked by ordinary men.” Barnacle began taking out the vials and rubbing the labels clear. “It's the date on the Meredith one that interests me; that had to be about the same time we banked the Oswald specimens.”

“You mean you have more than one?”

“Not now. I used to have two. I sold one to a woman.” Then Barnacle found the vial he was looking for. After he rubbed the label clean, he said to Harvey. “Here's the one we're looking for.”

Harvey looked at it closely. Then even closer. Sure enough, it said
L.H. Oswald, 4/63
. “Isn't that amazing?” said Barnacle. “April of 1963—the very same month we banked the Don Meredith sample.”

“What's amazing,” said Harvey, is that you've got an actual
Oswald
. You know what this could be worth on a place like eBay?”

“What's eBay?”

“It's an online auction place. You know, on the internet.”

“Oh you must mean computers,” said Barnacle. “I'm afraid I've never heard of Aybay.”

“eBay,” Harvey corrected him. “I've got some advice for you, Mr. Barnacle. It would be worth your while to find out. My friend Victor upstairs could tell you all about it. When it comes to computers, he's really prime.”

“Maybe I'll look into that. eBay, you say.”

“Yeah. Check it out. But you said you sold your other one. Can you remember who bought it?”

“Indeed I can. I'll never forget it.”

Harvey could feel his pulse beat faster again. “How's come?”

Barnacle had cracked a wide smile and began rubbing the long white hands faster. “Well, Harvey, I'll tell you why. In the first place, it's the last sample I ever sold. It was back sometime during the '80s. The exact year I can't remember. But the woman herself is someone I'll never forget.”

Harvey started breathing so fast he was almost dizzy. “So? So tell me about the woman,” he pleaded.

“Are you interested in buying this sample?”

“No, but I'm dyin' to hear more about the woman.”

Barnacle put the sample trays back inside the freezer before he answered. Harvey was restless and apprehensive. Barnacle began by saying, “Well, to begin with, I think she was an Indian, probably a Cherokee.”

“Probably
a Cherokee?”

“I can't be certain,” said Barnacle, deep in thought, rubbing his hands much more slowly. “There were so many tribes over there around Nacogdoches that all got mixed up together over the years. But since the Cherokee was the biggest tribe and so important, I just tend to call all Indians Cherokee.”

“The tribe doesn't matter,” said Harvey impatiently. “Are you sure she was an Indian?”

“Oh yes,” Asa answered. “I can't say she was
pure
Indian, but you could tell she was mostly.”

“Okay, okay, but you said she was someone you'd never forget. It couldn't just be that she was an Indian. We all see Indians, all the time.”

“Let me tell you the rest. She wasn't young; I'd say she was probably about fifty, but you can never be quite certain.”

“Okay, okay.”

“I asked her why she wanted a baby at her age. She said she didn't have a husband but wanted a baby while she still could.” Asa reached up and pulled the chain, turning off bright overhead light. Now it
really did
seem mysterious, since they were in the half-dark. Barnacle continued, “Well, there wasn't much I could say back to that. But here's the strangest part.”

“So tell me.
Tell
me.”

“She said she wanted the Oswald sample.”

“Did she say why?”

“Yes, she did. I can remember the two reasons she gave me like it was only yesterday.” Barnacle turned to check that the freezer door was tightly shut. Harvey tried to be patient; he shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other.

“Her first reason was because Oswald was a Communist. She liked that.”

“A Communist?” asked Harvey? “Lee Oswald was a
Communist
?”

“Lots of people thought he was. As for me, I don't know and I don't care. But it seemed to impress her.”

“Okay, what was the other reason?”

“When Oswald was in the Marines, he scored so high on his rifle tests that he earned the title of
sharpshooter
. He was officially designated as a Marine Sharpshooter.”

“That's it? He was a communist and a sharpshooter?”

Barnacle shrugged his shoulders and gave his tired hands a rest. “It was good enough for her, that's all I can say.”

“Her name, though,” Harvey urged. “What was her name?”

“The name she gave me was
Margaret Soft Feet
.”

“Oh my God.” said Harvey, his stomach all in turmoil. “Can you say that again?”

“She told me her name was Margaret Soft Feet.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure that's what she said?”

“Quite sure. There's a sad end to the tale though, Harvey. Word came back that after she had the baby she didn't want it after all. She ended up wrapping it in a blanket and leaving it on some stoop or porch over in Nacogdoches.”

“Oh my God,” Harvey said again. He was shaking his head back and forth.

“Are you okay, Harvey? I hope I haven't said anything to upset you, but you look a little pale.”

“I look pale? How can you tell that? We're standin' in the dark here.”

“My eyes are used to dark places.”

Harvey's emotions were all bubbling like a boiling pot, only in several directions at the same time. “Let's go back upstairs,” he said to Asa.

“Surely.”

Harvey headed for the stairway, but after four steps he stopped. He had one more question for Asa Barnacle. “Do you remember if she was wearin' a necklace?”

“She was. It was a large tooth on a rawhide strip. I'd say it was probably a wolf's tooth.”

Harvey didn't answer. He didn't want—or need—to hear any more. He headed up the stairs with Barnacle right behind him.

Carmelita had bought a small Cherokee sun catcher. Victor had bought an old book on the history of the New York City subway system. The three of them sat on the curb outside while Harvey told them the whole story.
All of it
. Even the part about the little girl in the old photograph who Mrs. Mushrush's mother had called soft feet.

“Wow!” said Victor. “You really found out a lot.”

Carmelita said, “So you finally know who your parents were. Are you satisfied now?”

“No,” Harvey answered quickly. “If you want the truth, this whole thing's got me in a funk.” He was picking at blades of grass along the curb.

“Why are you bummed?” asked Victor.

“Think about it. I just found out that a scumbag, Lee Harvey Oswald, is probably my father.”

“But we don't know that for certain.”

“Weren't you listenin' to me when I told you what the man said?”

Victor was subdued. His quiet answer was, “Yeah, Harv, I was listening.”

“There ain't much room for doubt. It looks like my mother was an old Indian, or a half-breed or somethin', and she didn't even want me once I was born. And my father was one of the most famous dickwads there ever was.”

None of them spoke for several moments. “Then I guess my name,” said Harvey, “is Lee Harvey Soft Feet.” But that sounded so crazy he couldn't suppress a short laugh.

Carmelita patted his shoulder. “There's an old saying, Harvey: Be careful what you wish for 'cause you just might get it.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I probably shoulduv let this whole thing alone.”

“Not true,” said Victor. “If I didn't know who my parents were, I think I'd do everything I could to find out.”

Carmelita was nodding her head. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Victor's got a good point.”

17. HANDWRITING ANALYST

The next day, Harvey was still disturbed. What he'd learned about his parents chilled him inside. He kept mostly to himself. He didn't even listen in his favorite class, Mrs. Bert's sociology.

Instead, he was trying out different ways to sign his new name:

Lee Harvey Oswald Soft Feet

Lee Harvey Oswald Soft Feet

Lee Harvey Oswald Soft Feet

Lee Harvey Oswald Soft Feet

Lee Harvey Oswald Soft Feet

Enough, he decided. He crumpled up the paper. “Harvey, what are you doing?” Mrs. Bert asked him.

“Nothin' really, just throwin' away some notes I don't need to keep.”

“We have a waste basket for that purpose.”

It was a round metal one, up next to Mrs. Bert's desk. Without moving from his desk, Harvey shot the wad of paper like a basketball; it landed right in the center of the basket.

“Yesss!” exclaimed Victor Vice. “Ring it up!” He was mimicking some famous basketball play-by-play guy. Harvey didn't know who.

Later that afternoon, he was still brooding, sitting by himself on a Dealey Plaza park bench. It was now November, so the air was a little cooler; almost sweatshirt weather, but not quite. Victor came to sit beside him. “Still bummed out, Harvey?”

“Yeah, mostly.”

“You know who your parents were now, so you're uptight.”

“Wouldn't you be? What if you found out that scumbag Oswald was your father?”

“You're completely convinced, aren't you?”

“I don't have a doubt, not after talkin' to Asa Barnacle. Why would Oswald even leave specimens in a sperm bank?”

“Well,” said Victor, knitting his brow in a frown, “you said the date on the test tube was April of '63.”

“Right. So?”

“That was probably when he was planning his assassination. He didn't know if he'd survive or not.”

Harvey thought about it. It made some sense.

Then Victor turned their discussion in a different direction: “What you need to do now, is turn your attention to the part of Oswald that isn't dead.”

“What part would that be? He's been in the ground for forty years.”

“Aha. But his
list
is not dead.”

“I thought you said eBay wouldn't auction it unless we could prove it was the douchebag himself who wrote the list.”

“You're right. So it's our job to find a handwriting analyst.”

“You mean people do that for money?”

“They do it for
good
money. Lots of times they're hired by lawyers to testify in court. In one of the cases my father was involved in, he had to hire a professional hand-writing expert to testify in court. Some farmer was suing because he claimed he had a bigger inheritance coming to him than he got. His only evidence was some notes written on the back of a seed catalogue. He was tryin' to prove the notes were written by his old man.”

“How'd it turn out?”

“I don't remember. I just remember the seed catalogue part. It was too weird.”

Harvey sighed and slumped. “How do we find one of these handwriting experts?”

“Well, the yellow pages worked for us when we wanted to find sperm banks. We could always start there.”

Across from them, on his usual bench, the massive Oboe Meel was sprawling backward, head thrown back, his fingers knitted together on his jumbo stomach. “Maybe we could ask Professor Meel,” Harvey thought out loud.

Victor nodded his head. “That might work. Wanna talk to him now?”