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A Grain of Mustard – by Jeanne Gardner as told to Beatrice Moore

It was a restless night for me. For more than a year the name of Bobby Kennedy had appeared in clues given to me by the Voice. I was fearful that he, like his brother Jack, would meet his death through assassination, but I did not have enough information to piece the clues together.

Now, this night in Washington, Monday, June 3, 1968, I was tormented by a vision of Bobby Kennedy in a large kitchen, and the Voice in crying tones telling me that Bobby would be struck by the bullet of a despot. I saw the man, a short, swarthy fellow in his twenties. I tossed and turned and tried to think of other things. I couldn't believe that this young Presidential candidate could possibly be the victim of assassination at a period in his life when he was gaining in popularity and stature. There had to be some mistake.

As daylight streamed through the blinds and I lay in the bed still fighting sleeplessness, I heard the Voice in clear, authoritative tones. "Jeanne, write this down. Get a pencil and write this down."

 I had learned through the years to do as I was told, because a record of these messages was all that I had to convince people of my gift. I groped in my Purse and found a pencil and reached to the bedside table for a small memo pad.

There was no mistake.

The assassination of Robert F. Kennedy was certain. Now I had to tell someone. My fingers faltered as I tried to dress hurriedly. Who could I tell, and what would the reaction be? I arrived at the Shoreham Hotel breathless and trembling, only to learn that the exhibit would not open until 10 A.M. There was nothing to do but wait.

At ten o'clock the convention hall was opened to visitors, and I hurriedly made my way to the Simon & Schuster booth. I was relieved to see Bea Moore standing beside the exhibit, and I rushed to join her. "Bea," I blurted in the same way a child reveals a tormenting secret, "there is going to be a shooting in connection with the Presidency in the early hours tomorrow morning. It will take place in or right outside a large kitchen. There will be a High Requiem Mass in St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York and one later in Hyannisport."

Before I would say anything more, Bea grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer to her. "Jeanne," she whispered, "if you must say things like that, Say them quietly. Otherwise, someone with the net may grab you. "

It was plain that I wasn't being taken seriously "Bea," I began earnestly, "do you think I would make up a dreadful story like this? It's not a joke. I heard the Voice early this morning, and all the clues it has given me over the past year were linked together. I know this shooting will happen tomorrow morning as well as I know my own name."

 "Okay, Jeanne," she said in an appeasing way, "let's get out of here and go get a cup of coffee."

 "I don't want coffee," I told her frantically. "I want you to believe me! You promised to come to my room and look at my journals and affidavits that will testify to my sincerity. Will you come now?" She looked at me for a long, difficult moment, then moved her head from side to side in resignation.

 "All right, Jeanne, I'll go to your room now and look at your journals." It was almost as though she were trying to spare me from revealing what I knew to anyone else for fear it might hurt me. I was beyond the point of logic, however. I knew that for me this was the eleventh hour, and I had to move decisively. We took a shortcut from the Shoreham to my hotel, and this time I took the lead in the conversation, trying to penetrate the barrier I knew Bea Moore had established concerning my gift and the story that had to be told.

It was easy to understand why she wanted no part of it. There was, after all, nothing in writing, except for the outline which had already been rejected. Somehow I had to enlist her in my cause. I had to get her to join me in my quest for national recognition, so that I could get on with my primary project, building the Cathedral. I talked rapidly in what I hoped was a convincing manner, and as we talked, she listened, acknowledging that she heard me by nodding her head affirmatively. When we arrived at my room, I asked her to take a seat.

 "Before we begin to look at my journals, perhaps you'd like to see the notes I made this morning when the Voice spoke to me of Bobby Kennedy."

 "I would like to see them," she agreed. I stepped to the bedside table and handed her the memo Pad. Bea studied each line carefully. When she'd finished, she looked up at me, her eyes wide with interest. "I must say, Jeanne, I'm fascinated, but I'm not convinced." She hurried on, as though she had to get something off her chest.

"Jeanne," she said, "before you begin to plead your case and I am put in the position of saying no to someone as nice as you, let me tell you that I admire your courage. Let me say that I am in complete awe of a person who, in the face of overwhelming adversities, has had the patience and fortitude to carry on this difficult mission. But," she went on, "isn't there some other way to approach your problem? Does it have to be with these prophecies? Couldn't you initiate a fund-raising program? The idea of a Cathedral for all faiths is such a wonderful one that I can imagine you would have no difficulty in finding sponsors."

Her sincerity and her desire to spare me from hurt touched me and amused me at the same time. "Bea" I answered, "if there were any other avenue to reach my goal, believe me, I would be pursuing it. But there isn't. I know from my experiences over the past seven years that I must do as the Voice bids me. Here," I said, extracting one of the journals from my briefcase, "look at these records dated 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966. Scattered throughout these pages, you will see the name of Simon & Schuster many times. You will also see the name Bea. At the time I wrote your name in these pages, I had no idea who you were or how you would help me. Nevertheless, the time has come for the story to be told, and here we are sitting together, talking about it."

 She flipped through the pages of the book, stopping here and there to scan the words that were written, sucking in her breath from time to time, as though she'd been pinched.

 "Jeanne," she said finally with a great deal of pain in her voice "you're convinced that I'm your answer. Believe me, I am not. You're convinced that Providence has led you to me and that I can help you. You couldn't be more wrong."

I picked up one of the notebooks she had read and dropped on the floor between us. "Look here, Bea," I implored. "Do you see where the Voice told me to go to Simon & Schuster, and I asked who would help me there, and the Voice answered 'Bea'? I asked the Voice how you would help me, and the Voice replied, 'Ability.'"

 "My dear," she answered quickly, her dark eyes clouding, "I'm afraid the Voice has led you down the garden path. I am a publisher of paperback books. The only way I could help would be to persuade one of the other divisions to publish your story, and how can I do that when I'm not convinced myself that you have a story?”

 I smiled at her, for the first time fully confident that my efforts would not be in vain. "You're going to help me, Bea, whether you want to or not, whether you realize it yet or not. You're going to help me." She shook her head in mild exasperation, then sighed, as if to say, "I give up, but not for long.”

"All right, Jeanne," she said. “Let me see some more of the journals.”

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Bea Moore looked at me with an expression of disbelief, but I had the feeling she wanted to believe me.

 "Jeanne," she said after a moment or two, "you're an interesting composite. You're sweet, companionable, intelligent, normal, and natural. Yet there's something about you that is strange and supernatural. What is it Jeanne? Have you ever thought about the effect you have on people?"

 I smiled and answered carefully. "I don't think I'm strange. Maybe this work I'm trying to accomplish has left its mark on me. Maybe I have been imbued with some magnetic quality that draws people to me. I do find that when I speak to people, they often move to get closer to me. Even as you, Bea."

She straightened up in her chair, as though I had reminded her painfully that she had come to say "No." Bea stayed another half hour, looking through the journals, asking a question here and there, and at last came back to my notes on Bobby Kennedy. Finally she stood up, getting ready to leave.

 "I don't know what to tell you, Jeanne. I came here to give you a definite no, but I can't bring myself to do it. Give me a little time to think and talk about it with some of our people, and I'll be in touch with you again."

 I took her hand to say, "Good-bye," but what I felt like saying was "Hello."

 I knew at that moment that I was on the threshold of victory and that Bea Moore was the person who would spearhead my campaign. She left my room with the promise that she would call me when she got back from her trip, somewhere around the middle of June. What I did not know at that time was that instead of returning to the convention, she cancelled some appointments she'd made for the day, checked out of her hotel, and caught a plane back to New York. She told me later that she didn't know why she did what she did, but she knew instinctively that she had to get back to New York and discuss our meeting with other people in her organization. I frittered the day away, chatting with people I'd met at the convention and seeing a couple of old friends in Washington.

 That afternoon, as I passed the Simon & Schuster booth, a couple of their representatives hailed me. They invited me back to their hospitality suite that evening. Having nothing else scheduled, I was delighted to accept. Again I met new people. And each person I met I told about my message from the Voice concerning Bobby Kennedy.

It was only a matter of hours now.

After dinner I returned to my hotel, but I couldn't rest. This prophecy weighed heavily on me. I had asked the Voice many times if there were something I could do to prevent this terrible thing from happening, and the Voice had answered that certain things could not be changed. Yet, being human, I suffered with this knowledge inside me. I prepared for bed, knowing that I would not be able to close an eye. I tossed and turned and tossed and turned, looking at my watch periodically. Finally, at three-thirty, I flicked on the radio.

 The first words I heard were the tail end of a news bulletin confirming what I already knew. Robert Kennedy had been shot in Los Angeles. He was critically injured. I waited for the next report to hear the details. How can I explain my emotions? I was exhausted, drained of energy, spirit, thought. It isn't easy to carry something like this inside you and then see it come to pass. It's like knowing that a beloved member of one's family has a terminal illness. Everyone in the family knows the person has only a short time left. Yet when the person passes on, the shock is as great as if his death were un- expected.

 I fell back on the bed and lay there wide-eyed, waiting for dawn to come. About six-forty-five my telephone rang. It was one of the Simon & Schuster people to whom I had spoken about this tragic event. Bill Holmes was completely flabbergasted. For the next two hours there was a steady stream of calls from the convention people to whom I had mentioned this incident before it occurred. At nine o'clock I had still another call. This one was from Bea Moore in New York.

 "Jeanne," she began in a voice that sounded as if it didn't belong to her, "I can’t believe it. I know it has really happened, but I can't believe it."

 "I always feel that way when a prediction becomes a reality," I assured her. "It's a very natural reaction."

"Well, you were right, Jeanne. I heard it with my own ears, and all our staff people and our visitors heard it, too. You were right." It was as though for the first time she acknowledged what I had been trying to tell her for more than three months.