The Summer I Met Jack

by Michelle Gable

  Before she could protest, or take possession of the drink, Jack vanished through the double doors. Alicia stood motionless, her body roiling with a great mixture of emotions. She was discombobulated, bewildered, and a little charmed. All that and poorer, given she was now thirty cents in the hole.

  DISPLACED PERSONS REMINDED TO REGISTER

  Brown County Democrat, August 24, 1950

  HYANNIS PORT

  “I’ll put it on the Ambassador’s account,” the cabdriver said as Alicia reached into her purse.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  She stood on a circular driveway, peering into the taxi’s window as a flag overhead thrashed in the wind. Behind her, a rambling white clapboard home leered through its green-shuttered windows.

  “I don’t need to pay?” Alicia said.

  The ocean breeze was doing a number on the flag, and her skirt as well. Alicia leaned against the car to keep her decency intact.

  “Mr. Kennedy has an account,” the driver explained. “And I’m sure he’d want to pay your way.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t,” Alicia said. “It’d feel like a—”

  “It’d feel like nothing. He’s so rich, money’s practically coming out of his ears. Anyway, it’s all paid out of New York. He probably doesn’t even see the bills. Now, if you don’t mind stepping away from the car, I need to get back for the cranberry express.”

  “Thanks for the lift,” she said.

  “Have a lovely day! And stay cool. It’s gonna be a scorcher. Best you change out of that suit.”

  With that, he revved the engine, made one loop around the flagpole, and puttered off.

  In her letters, Irenka said the Kennedys were one of the richest families in America. She’d described the house in exhaustive detail, but seeing it firsthand was another matter. It was somehow ostentatious and modest at the same time, like a beautiful girl who blushed when she attracted attention.

  According to Irenka, the home had fourteen bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and a four-car garage. The basement contained a motion-picture theater, a wine cellar, and a hallway lined with a collection of dolls.

  “Mrs. Kennedy keeps them down there,” Irenka had written, “I think so the children do not scream.”

  The multiacre property also featured an enclosed swimming pool, a tennis court, a boathouse, two guesthouses, and a private dock. The lawns were well-tended, all the way to the sea.

  Taking it all in, Alicia filled with the same flushing tingle as when she stepped off the bus at depot square. Hyannis Port exceeded any fantasy, with its quaint and tree-lined Main Street, charming storefronts, and sailboat masts bobbing in the harbor. And now, the Kennedy estate. Had she known Cape Cod might be like this, Alicia would’ve ditched Oklahoma long ago. Her luck was shifting. Alicia could sense it, as palpable as an ocean gale.

  She approached the front door, feeling insignificant compared to the scope of the home, not to mention the ocean beyond. She’d seen the Atlantic before, of course, for weeks and from a battleship, but she’d never seen it like this. They should’ve plunked the Statue of Liberty right there in Nantucket Sound. This matched her American dreams better than anything in New York.

  Alicia took the steps, one by one, the wood creaking beneath her shoes. Okay, so the home’s exterior did need a new coat of paint and patches of dead grass broke up the lawn. But these imperfections were hardly worth mentioning, given everything else.

  As she went to ring the bell, the front door swung open and a blur of person slingshotted out. It was a young woman, a petite, curvy thing who crashed to the floor upon contact with Alicia’s right shoulder.

  “Oh, excuse me!” the woman said, and popped to her feet.

  She gathered the mess her stack of papers had made.

  “I didn’t hear the bell!” she said.

  This woman was not much older than Alicia, midtwenties, most likely.

  “Are you here to see…” She assessed Alicia for a minute. “Pat?”

  “Um…”

  “Jean? No matter, no matter.” The girl waved her hand around. “They’re basically all here. Last I saw, Mrs. Kennedy was in the kitchen with Eunice. Or is it Ethel you want?”

  “I am actually here to see…”

  “Mrs. Robert Kennedy is peacocking about somewhere,” the girl said with a shake of her head. “Trying to lure people into games she’s rigged to win. Anyhow, I’m off to post some letters for the Ambassador. Have we met? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Janet des Rosiers, Mr. Kennedy’s personal secretary. Everyone calls me Miss Dee. Okay, then, help yourself inside. I’m off. Toodle-loo!”

  Miss Dee said all of this without taking a breath, and then scampered down the stairs and toward a black car parked on the side of the house. Alicia remained frozen in place.

  “Go on!” Miss Dee called out, unlocking the car door. “The house is open. Go right in!”

  “Wouldn’t it be impolite?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

  With a huff, Miss Dee pounded upstairs and caught Alicia by her sleeve. She hauled her inside.

  “Hello!” she shouted. “A friend of Pat’s is here!”

  Alicia began to second-guess the outfit she’d chosen that day: a gray flannel sheath and accompanying jacket with a deep-winged collar and sassy cuffs, purchased at a discount when she worked the Christmas season at Brown’s. It was the best getup she owned, and probably too nifty for a maid, hence Miss Dee’s confusion. But Alicia wasn’t going to show up at the Kennedys’ in immigrant wool, what with the possibility of running into Jack.

  “Hello!” Miss Dee called out again.

  She increased her pace and Alicia jogged to keep up, florals and checks whizzing through her vision. Soon they were standing in the kitchen beside two women: one older, one young. A mother and her daughter, from the looks of it. A large-brimmed straw hat was on the table between them.

  “Miss Dee, I thought you’d left,” said the older of the two, whom Alicia pegged as Mrs. Kennedy, based on Irenka’s diligent description.

  The family matriarch was petite, more so than Alicia or Miss Dee, a meter and a half at most. She sported large pearl earrings and perfectly curled and coiffed hair, these particulars not necessarily in accordance with the casualness of her linen blouse and pants. As for the daughter, she wore a striped one-piece playsuit, which served to spotlight her gangly legs and knobby knees.

  “I was trying to leave,” Miss Dee explained, “when I noticed a visitor no one bothered to let in!”

  “Miss Dee, I’m glad you’re still here,” Mrs. Kennedy said, ignoring the problem of the improperly greeted guest. “It’s imperative that we go over this summer’s food bill as soon as possible.”

  “I showed you everything last week,” Miss Dee said. “When we receive the next invoice, I’ll bring it to you, right away.”

  “No, but you see, you haven’t shown me everything. For example, I didn’t see strawberries on any of the documentation, yet I’ve eaten strawberries in this very home!”

  Alicia pondered the taxi driver’s claims that no one bothered to mind the family’s bills. If Mr. Kennedy didn’t pay attention, Mrs. Kennedy surely did. Alicia was struck with a certain curiosity as to how she might appear on the invoice. One woman, in transit.

  “Strawberries,” Eunice said, and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Mother! Concern about fifty cents when you fly to Paris on the regular for new frocks.”

  Eunice’s tone—or maybe it was the accent—surprised Alicia, coming out as if from a pellet gun. After she stopped speaking, the girl’s harsh voice lingered on Alicia’s skin, like a dozen small lacerations. Mrs. Kennedy’s wasn’t any smoother. Hers was high-pitched and crackly, like a phonograph scratch.

  “Don’t be sassy, Eunice,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “The peak time is May and now that we’re solidly into August, we can’t be buying strawberries out of season.”

  “Like your dresses.”

  “That’s enough.”

  She was interestin
g, this daughter who was about Alicia’s age. Eunice wasn’t as tall as she seemed, upon closer scrutiny. It was her extreme thinness that connoted a height not necessarily achieved. She had a broad smile and a broad face, and unlike her mother’s perfect ringlets, Eunice’s hair was a frizzy, auburn wreck. Yet there was something beautiful about her. No, that wasn’t right. Perhaps “handsome” was the ticket. “Striking.”

  “I’m happy to discuss the strawberry requisitioning process later,” Miss Dee said, “but I really must get to the post office before they close. Might we push this conversation to a later time?”

  “Of course. Please, go post the mail. But we will discuss it. I won’t forget!”

  “I’m sure that’s true. See you all later!”

  Miss Dee ran from the room as fast as her shapely legs might carry her.

  “Hello there,” Alicia said, her heart galloping as the two women stared. “I’m here to see…”

  Mrs. Kennedy stopped her with a finger.

  “Hold that thought.”

  She bent over the table to scribble out a note. Strawberries, she wrote, and then Mrs. Kennedy pinned the note to her dress, alongside a half dozen other slips of paper. Alicia squinted to read them.

  Recover settee

  Sort magazines

  Roosevelt

  When Alicia lifted her gaze, she accidentally caught eyes with Eunice, who was analyzing her like a professor.

  “You’re here for Pat?” she said, her words again hard and fast, a well-practiced rhythm. “She’s not here.”

  “That’s okay,” Alicia said. “I’m not here for—”

  “Oh, how rude!” Mrs. Kennedy chirped. “We haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Mrs. Joseph P. Kennedy.…”

  Mrs. Kennedy extended a hand, but as Alicia went to take it, Eunice jumped in.

  “Since Pat’s not here,” she said, “maybe you can settle a dispute between Mother and me.”

  “A dispute?” Alicia stammered. “I’m probably not qualified—”

  “No qualification necessary. You’d think a grown woman could pick out her own hat.”

  “You’d think…” Mrs. Kennedy muttered. “Honestly Eunice, you’re the best of the Girls, yet your presentation is abysmal. If you’d try to be the least bit fashionable, it’d do wonders for your social life. It’s a miracle you have any dates whatsoever in Washington.”

  Eunice leaned against a white wicker chair. She turned toward Alicia.

  “See that hat on the table?” she said. “Whaddya think?”

  “You really want my opinion?” Alicia asked, eyes drifting toward the hat she’d noticed when she first walked in.

  If there was one thing Alicia could freely converse about, it was millinery. Oklahoma had been good for one thing, at least—her stint in the hat box at Brown’s.

  “Sure,” Eunice said, shrugging her pointy shoulders. “Why not?”

  “Stop pestering her,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “I’m sorry. I tried to raise the Children with manners. But…”

  “I do have some opinions on hats,” Alicia said, voice thin. “As it happens.”

  “For example?” Eunice asked, lifting her brows as she crossed both arms over her chest.

  “Well,” Alicia started, “this coolie style is perfect for the summer, given its lightweight construction. And its wide brim balances bare arms while offering wonderful sun protection. But, when you’re talking indoors…” She exhaled. “Small and neat can’t be beat.”

  Alicia smiled and the two women stared, mouths open. Alicia blushed. There she went, spewing out corny advertising slogans again. As a girl, she’d developed her English fluency through tutors and teachers, but she learned American thanks to newspapers, radios, and TV.

  “Small and neat can’t be beat?” Eunice gawked.

  “Something I learned working at Brown’s,” Alicia added, her blush deepening. “It was the largest department store in Oklahoma. What I meant was, smaller is better to show off one’s profile.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to say.”

  “You’re here to see Pat?”

  “Eunice has a date,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “And she wants to wear a straw hat. For the love of all that’s holy.”

  “We’re at the Cape, Mother. He’s seen me in a swimsuit.”

  “That’s nothing to brag about.”

  Alicia’s mind whirred as she struggled to keep pace with the back-and-forth, her ears ringing from their flinty accents. She longed for a piece of paper on which to jot her own notes, the things to follow up on later. Of course, she’d never pin them to her dress.

  “How do you know Pat?” Eunice pressed.

  “I apologize for the misunderstanding, but I’m not here for Pat.” Alicia laughed. “I’ve never even met him!”

  “Pat is my daughter,” Mrs. Kennedy said, and pinched her lips together.

  “Yes, sorry, let me explain,” Alicia said. “I’m here about a job.”

  Her voice squeaked.

  “A job?” Mrs. Kennedy balked.

  “Yes. My friend, Irenka Michalska, works here. She said you needed extra help through the rest of the summer and that I might be the one to fill this role? I believe she brought up my name?”

  “Michalska?”

  Mrs. Kennedy shook her head.

  “That’s the downstairs maid, Mother,” Eunice said, one eye on Alicia. “You know, the husky one?”

  “Ah, right. Irenka. That fleshy farm girl from Russia. Very religious! She’s a dear.”

  “Poland,” Alicia corrected.

  “Religious” didn’t sound like Irenka, though “fleshy” and “farm girl” certainly checked out.

  “Yes, I’m starting to recall something about a ‘friend,’” Mrs. Kennedy said, “but you don’t look like a maid.”

  “Thank you. I hope to be an artist eventually but…”

  “And how on earth do you know Irenka?”

  “Really, Mother! Can’t you see?” Eunice pointed, accusatorily, as if fingering someone for a crime. “She’s from Russia, too.”

  “Not Russia…”

  “You are?” Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes bounced between her daughter and the immigrant who’d shown up in her kitchen out of the clear blue.

  Alicia imagined that Mrs. Kennedy was right then questioning everything she’d ever believed about hats.

  “I’m from Poland,” Alicia said. “Though I left the country some time ago. I don’t…” She gulped. “My family is gone.”

  “Your English is impeccable,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “And you’re quite lovely. You don’t seem Polish at all.”

  “Oh, thank you?”

  “I could tell,” Eunice snapped.

  She paused, chin lifted victoriously.

  “Despite your … appearance, I could tell,” she said. “So. You’re … whaddya call it? Displaced?”

  “I am a recent émigré, yes.”

  “Good grief. Why are there so many damned refugees on the Cape?” Eunice griped.

  “You’ll need to speak with Miss Dee,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “She’s in charge of the help, but just left.”

  “Can I wait until she returns?”

  Alicia felt a headache coming on.

  “You can’t hang around,” Eunice said. “Stay here. I’ll find Irenka. Holy moly, I thought you people were supposed to come with your own jobs.”

  Eunice trotted off, muttering about the immigrant problem as she went. Alicia looked across the table to Mrs. Kennedy. She smiled meekly.

  “You have a lovely home,” she said.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Kennedy replied. “I’m thinking of buying new drapes.”

  * * *

  Later that day, they were in the kitchen, Eunice’s hat still on the table. Somewhere in the house, a bath had been started. Water whooshed through the pipes.

  Alicia stood nervously, pulling on her new uniform, as sunlight streamed through the kitchen window.

  “I’ll need to get thi
s taken in,” she said. “Or taken up.”

  Anything so that the dress might fit a woman better than it would a crop of potatoes. Meanwhile, Irenka stood a few steps away, clucking.

  “I cannot accept you be maid,” she said.

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  Alicia yanked the apron strings tighter, and tighter still. There was a waist in there somewhere.

  “I taut you find different job, wit your pretty face,” Irenka said.

  “They don’t hire for pretty,” Alicia replied.

  “Don’t they?”

  “Well, if you hear about something like that, please let me know.”

  Alicia placed both hands on her hips and blew a string of blond hair from her eyes. The uniform was a far better fit for Irenka than it was for her, in a way that had little to do with measurements or length. With her ruddy complexion and stout build, Irenka was made for the backbreaking work tending to that house surely required. Alicia hated to think it, but facts were facts. Irenka was her one friend in America, and the only other Pole she knew, yet sometimes it was like they’d been born oceans apart.

  A year ago, they were placed together at the YWCA in Oklahoma City, owing to their shared circumstances: Polish, unattached, and “young,” although Irenka had several years on Alicia, exactly how many she’d not confess. Though they were similar in these obvious ways, at heart they were nothing alike.

  Alicia spent her childhood in Łódź, a burgeoning, prosperous city in central Poland known for its culture and industry. As a young girl, she attended the opera, studied music, and showed an affinity for art. She dreamed of seeing her pieces in the world’s most prestigious galleries. Connoisseurs would buy her artwork in Paris and in New York.

  While Alicia blossomed in the country’s second-largest city, her future roommate lived on the opposite side of Poland, in the hinterlands near Russia. Like most in that region, Irenka’s people were farmers (“I slaughter de pigs”) who maintained an existence of work and production. She had a meager education and never learned to read.

  By the time they moved in together, the world had changed and thus their “differences” were preposterous, if such differences still existed. Irenka was no longer a farmer, Alicia no longer upper class, and neither girl was really “Polish” anymore. They were displaced persons—in the same boat, as they said, though their shared boat was also true in fact.