Little Differences

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Dion was singing “Abraham, Martin and John” on the radio.

Jeff was making breakfast.

When Dion got to the part about Bobby, Jeff took the egg he was about to crack and threw it against the wall. Then he did the same with another. Then he took the whole box and smashed it on the floor, and stomped on it for good measure.

He was still mopping up the mess and crying when Laura walked in a few minutes later.

“Honey! What’s wrong?”

Jeff shook his head, said nothing. They’d been over this before. He had to steel himself against this kind of thing. He’d never make it to 1986 if he broke down every time he heard a song about an assassination he could have stopped. But there was something about that last verse—

Laura pulled him up into her arms, kissed his neck, drew his arms around her.

“I still have egg on my hands—”

“It’s OK, baby,” she said. “Shhh, it’s OK.” She kissed him again.

“It’s just that last verse.” Jeff said. “I don’t think ‘Abraham, Martin, and John’ was originally written that way—with the verse about Bobby. They just tacked it on, after he was killed. That’s why his name’s not in die tide. It’s bad enough I was here when JFK and now Martin Luther King were murdered, and I did nothing—”

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