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How Did You Know?

Gil Hoy

    A mother should know her own children. Know what to believe and what not to believe from her own flesh and blood. But most importantly, a mother needs to listen. Even when she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
    Sure, Rick could sometimes exaggerate. But he was a good egg. He didn’t cause any trouble. He wasn’t a liar. And he’d never lied to me.
    But I still didn’t believe him. I couldn’t. What he was telling me was impossible. But I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s easy to do when you’re 88 years old, your husband has passed, your kids have grown up and you don’t see them much anyway. And on top of all that, I’m still feeling guilty. I haven’t gotten over it. I’ll start at the beginning.
    My son Rick was a third grader in the early ‘60’s. He went to The Wightman School, an elementary school in Squirrel Hill, Pennsylvania. His school had been around for about a hundred years and was named after Thomas Wightman, a glass manufacturing tycoon who owned two glass plants in Pittsburg in the late 1800’s. Mr. Wightman’s company went out of business in the early 1900’s and Rick’s school was permanently closed soon after he finished.
    My son was very bright. Exceptionally bright. He was an excellent student. They put him in a special class for gifted students. He was a lot like his father, probably the smartest man I’ve ever known. We moved to Squirrel Hill from Rochester, New York. So Rick’s father, my husband Jack, could study for his PhD in biochemistry at Carnegie Tech.
    From an early age, kindergarten if I’m remembering right, Rick could recall nearly everything that had happened to him in his life. He could remember exact dates and nearly all of the events in his past with great precision. I was worried about it. So we took Rick to our family doctor. He said my son had hyperthymesia. I couldn’t even pronounce it. Although very rare, that explained it.
    Rick had another ability that could not be explained. He could sometimes predict the future. As accurately and in as much detail as he could remember his past. This happened when he was dreaming. The first time it happened, I remember Rick coming up to me and pulling on my sleeve. He said, “Mommy, I had a dream last night. I know what’s going to happen to us today.” I told him that was impossible, that it was just a dream and to forget about it.
    Later that day, Rick said to me, “It happened Mommy. What I dreamed. Just like I dreamed it would.” At that point, I thought he might be crazy. I told him not to talk to me about his predictions again. Or to talk about them with anyone else for that matter. I didn’t want other people to think my son was crazy. And Rick listened to me. He never mentioned his predictions again. Except once.
    Kennedy was President when Rick was in the third grade. We were optimistic about America’s future. We believed in the President’s “New Frontier.” America was going to the moon. Ahead of the Russians. Because, as President Kennedy put it: “Space is there, and we’re going to climb it. And the moon and the planets are there.”
    Back then, Rick liked to trek up the steep hill behind our house to his best friend Mark’s house. A backpack of books strapped to his small back. The two boys would read together for hours. There was a cobblestone alley behind our house and our single car garage. It led up the steep hill to Mark’s house. Our two families lived on one side of the alley. On the other was The Wightman School and a synagogue. Mark’s family was Jewish. They attended synagogue most Saturdays. Rick was born a Presbyterian. But we were never very religious. We hardly ever went to church.
    Rick woke up around 8 AM on November 22, 1963, the day Kennedy was shot. He came downstairs. He said he’d had a dream. He was trembling. He tried to tell me what was going to happen that day. But I told him to stop. I didn’t believe him.
    By then, I was already dressed for work. My hairpins and rollers were still in my hair. My shift started at two. Rick started to cry. He told me he was thinking about me crying at the kitchen table. Because President Kennedy was dead. With my work clothes in a heap in the hallway. Smoking a cigarette. I said: “I have no idea what you’re talking about. That’s not going to happen. And I don’t smoke any more.” I told Rick: “Hurry up and get dressed for school. You’re going to be late.” He said his stomach hurt.
    Rick told me he knew exactly what was going to happen over the next few days. As completely and as accurately as he could remember his past. But I wouldn’t listen. And now there’s nothing I can do about it.
    When Rick got home from school that terrible Friday afternoon in November, 1963, I’d left the back door open. I needed some air. I was having difficulty breathing. I couldn’t believe what had happened. Rick had been let out early. He told me there’d been an announcement over the loudspeaker, “We’re closing school early today. Please go home right away. President Kennedy has been shot.” Rick said his stomach had been hurting him all day.
    When Rick got home, I remember I was sitting at the kitchen table. I had put my pj’s back on and my hair was a mess. My hairpins and rollers were on the table and my work clothes were in a heap on the floor in the hallway. I never made it to work that day. I was smoking a cigarette, holding the ashes in my hand. I hadn’t had a cigarette in ten years.
    Our black and white TV stood against the far wall. The picture was on, the volume medium. There were only three channels then, ABC, CBS and NBC. I was sobbing. I said to my son: “The President is dead. How did you know?”
    Over the next few days, Rick and I watched a lot of TV. We saw the funeral march and a horse with no rider. We saw a boy salute his dead father in his casket. Rick paid particular attention to the drums in the funeral procession. One hundred beats a minute. Every 10 seconds, the drums started. Then, they would stop and start again.

    After the President was buried, we sat at the kitchen table for several hours. Neither of us said a word. Rick’s younger brother and sister were there. But they were too young to understand what was happening. Jack was out.
    Rick’s seventh birthday was in three days. He told me he would go up the alley behind our house to his best friend Mark’s house to read. Those boys loved to sit together reading for hours.
    Rick gathered up his books in his backpack and said goodbye to me, his brother and his sister. As he was going out the kitchen door, I remember I cried out: “How did you know? How, how my son? Just what kind of a boy are you?” He didn’t answer.
    What if I’d called the White House back then? Would they have listened to a young woman from Squirrel Hill, Pennsylvania who said she knew what was going to happen to the President that day? That he was going to be shot? Probably not. I might have been arrested. Or they would have thought that I was crazy. I didn’t listen to my son. And they never would have listened to me.
    But I still feel guilty about all of it. I have trouble sleeping. Like most old ladies do. A mother should know her own children. Know what to believe and what not to believe from her own flesh and blood. But most importantly, a mother needs to listen. Even when a thing seems impossible and she can’t believe her own ears.

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