The Summer I Met Jack

by Michelle Gable

  It was a fair point, despite the unsettling hint of another possible war.

  “Hello there,” said a voice.

  Startled, Alicia nearly popped out of her clompy white shoes.

  “Hello, Mr. Kennedy … Ambassador Kennedy,” Alicia said, breath in short supply. “I apologize.”

  Alicia shook her head. What was she apologizing for, exactly?

  “It’s okay. Call me Joe.” The Ambassador walked a few steps closer. “Did I startle you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I thought everyone was out for the afternoon.”

  “Then I should be the one apologizing,” Mr. Kennedy said. “I would never want to put anyone off.”

  “Oh, it’s fine! Really, my own fault for getting lost in my imagination.”

  The Ambassador was now directly beside her, his hand a hairsbreadth from hers. Alicia could smell his musty, summertime scent.

  “It’s lovely outside, don’t you think?” she said, her heart faltering. “Did you get your horseback ride in earlier?”

  “I did. Listen. My youngest, Teddy, told me the strangest thing.”

  Though he did not move, the Ambassador seemed nearer still. Alicia’s hairline bubbled with sweat. When she dreamed of getting closer to the Kennedys, this was not what she had in mind.

  “Really?” she said. “And what was that?”

  Alicia reached for a napkin to fold and fold and fold.

  “Teddy was at the Center the other day, picking up a copy of Pretty Baby,” Mr. Kennedy said.

  Alicia nodded. They weren’t due to premiere the movie for a couple of weeks, but all films at the Center were shown in the Kennedy basement first, before anyone else got a peek.

  “Teddy was collecting the reel,” Mr. Kennedy continued, “and saw you wiping a counter and organizing candy. I thought, how can that be? Surely, we pay her enough. I would hate for one of our employees to need a second job. I know Mother can be quite severe.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Alicia said. “You pay the household staff generously. At the Center, I only work a handful of hours, and they let me show my art?”

  She grimaced, hating how her voice came out as a question.

  “You’re selling art on the street?” Mr. Kennedy scowled. “Oh, no, you poor dear.”

  “Not in the street, in the lobby. And a perspiring … aspiring artist has to start somewhere.”

  “This sounds awful.”

  “It’s not bad at all. I’m grateful for the opportunity, and happy to help with concessions on the side. I’m only in your employ temporarily—flex help, to carry you through the summer.”

  “Don’t fret, my dear. I can talk to Mother about giving you more hours.”

  “No!” Alicia shrieked.

  She reddened, and lowered her voice.

  “Really, Mr. Kennedy, that’s not necessary.”

  Panic washed over her. This was a great job, and the Kennedys were terrific theater, but if she stayed too long, she might never leave. Alicia understood how easily weeks spread into years. And she didn’t come to America to be a maid.

  “I enjoy the Center,” she insisted. “The customers are kind and the projectionist is a funny little man named George. I spend half the time trying to figure him out, like a puzzle.”

  She laughed to herself.

  “Plus, it leaves me time to paint,” she added. “I can’t be a housekeeper forever.”

  “Indeed. You are far too pretty to be a maid.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she murmured.

  As she began to fold her napkins with ever more diligence, the room’s air seemed to stop. It was as though someone sealed them off when previously they’d relished a nice breeze.

  “What happened to the articles on the board?” said a voice: cool and steely. “Has anyone seen my stories?”

  “Good afternoon, Mother,” the Ambassador said jovially. “How was golf?”

  “Three birdies,” Mrs. Kennedy answered, one eye fixed on Alicia.

  “Holy gum! You should be teaching lessons at the club,” he said. “Somehow you constantly improve while I only get worse.”

  “You should practice more.” Mrs. Kennedy looked at Alicia. “Have you seen—”

  “Oh!” Alicia yelped, suddenly remembering why the woman had come. “I’m so sorry. I have the articles right here.”

  “You took my articles?”

  “Borrowed them, really,” Alicia said. “I like to read while I fold laundry. It helps pass the time. I should’ve asked first. I’ll put them right back!”

  “My, my,” Mrs. Kennedy said, her voice a bewildering combination of shaky and firm. “Aren’t you an enterprising girl? Where did you say you were from?”

  “Vienna,” the Ambassador said. “She also works at the Center Theatre and is an accomplished artist.”

  “How nice,” Mrs. Kennedy said, barely moving her mouth to get the words out. “I’m pleased that you’re trying to acclimate to the country’s culture. I find so many displaced persons are resistant to the arts.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “They should have some sort of … program.” Mrs. Kennedy fished a scrap of paper from her pocket. “A program that could take refugees on cultural outings.”

  “Winning idea, Mother.”

  Mrs. Kennedy scratched out a note, then slapped her pencil on the table. She pinned the paper to her dress.

  “Perhaps you could start it with the church!” the Ambassador said.

  “Yes, I think I will. I’m so glad to have thought of it.”

  Mrs. Kennedy straightened the note as Alicia strained to see the words. Culture for the derelict, it read. Alicia pressed her lips together to keep from speaking her mind.

  Alicia was quite familiar with “culture,” no Catholic ladies needed. In the 1930s, her family consorted with Europe’s most renowned artists and writers and filmmakers. Father helped found the Polish Academy of Literature, and Alicia always read the works nominated for top prize.

  If Poland wasn’t good enough for Rose Kennedy, and surely it was not, Alicia had been to Paris, and many other cities besides. Even the ghetto in Łódź put on shows. It wasn’t the opéra national de Paris (seven times), but despite actual starving, they weren’t starving for art.

  “Culture sounds wonderful,” Alicia said, tightly. “I’ve missed it since I left Europe.”

  “Excuse me?” Mrs. Kennedy blinked.

  “My parents were great patrons of the arts. When I was five years old, I saw Bruno Walter conduct Das Lied von der Erde with the Vienna Philharmonic. I still remember every note.”

  The Ambassador chortled, as if Alicia had told a great joke. Meanwhile, Mrs. Kennedy looked stricken, her church program shot to hell.

  “Bruno Walter,” Mr. Kennedy said, still chuckling. “Brilliant. I’ve met him, you know. He lives near our daughter Pat in Hollywood. Well, if you ladies will excuse me, it’s two o’clock. I have a meeting with Janet.”

  He offered an amiable nod to Alicia, and then to his wife, and proceeded upstairs to his bedroom, where his two o’clock with Janet was customarily held. This meeting was always very … loud. Miss Dee must’ve been a vigorous typist.

  Alicia caught Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes as the sound of the secretary’s bare feet pit-a-patted up the stairs. If Alicia were to look, she’d see that Miss Dee carried nothing—no notebook, no pen.

  “You seem to be acclimating to America quite well,” Mrs. Kennedy said, slicing through Alicia with her gaze.

  Upstairs, the furniture began to creak.

  “America is wonderful,” Alicia said. “And this job is one reason why.”

  “What is dis in here?”

  Irenka appeared in the doorway, filling the space with her bulwark style. Though their friendship had grown tense and thin, Alicia was grateful for another body in this room. Mrs. Kennedy’s presence was suffocating, though she was small, about one-third Irenka’s size.

  “Mizz Kennedy. Did Alicja botter you?” Ir
enka wanted to know. “I tell her leave family alone.”

  “Everything’s fine, Irenka,” Alicia said, though this didn’t feel entirely true.

  “Yes, everything’s fine,” Mrs. Kennedy confirmed. “We were chatting about Miss Darr’s upbringing. It’s truly … unexpected. The Vienna Philharmonic. Can you imagine?”

  Irenka glowered.

  “Yes,” she said, almost a grunt. “Alicia very world-y. She has much experience.”

  Alicia side-eyed her friend. Since Alicia had taken the job with the Kennedys, Irenka had soured toward her, for reasons unexplained. But Alicia knew better than to sweet-talk a Polish woman, especially one who’d lived so close to Russia.

  “Please excuse me,” she said to Mrs. Kennedy. “There’s much to take care of and I don’t want to fall behind. Irenka, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

  As Alicia slipped by, Irenka hissed, “Tępa cipa.”

  Alicia pretended not to hear and instead reveled in the cadence of her native tongue. Polish was not a lyrical language, but she missed it sometimes.

  “To mi śmierdzi,” Irenka added, a parting shot, and louder this time, for Alicia was already mostly down the hall.

  “Do widzenia!” Alicia called gaily.

  She probably should’ve been more upset to be called a bitch, and then a rat. But it was cute almost, decidedly old-world, compared to all the things hurled at her during and after the war.

  Never mind Europe, though. There was a territorial dispute in that very home, over what, Alicia didn’t care to guess. She had one aim and it was to get by, to endure the hostility and this job for a few more days, and a few more after that, until the next season came. It was how she’d survived weeks, months, entire years before.

  Alicia couldn’t predict the future but she was determined to build a life that would leave people no choice but to view her with dignity, respect, and maybe a smidge of jealousy, too.

  ROMANCE BECOMES AFFAIR OF STATE

  Long Beach Independent, August 26, 1950

  HYANNIS PORT

  Alicia had spent eight days with the Kennedys, but was unprepared for the full brunt of their energy when they were all in the house at the same time.

  The shouting, the bickering, the constant one-upmanship. A door slammed here, something crashed over there, all those feet clobbering the stairs like a train that never stopped. Alicia wanted to ask, what was the prize? What was the sport in which they were all vying for first place? They exhausted her, and she wasn’t even competing.

  Alicia showed up early on a Saturday, after a raucous Friday night during which multiple persons were launched into the swimming pool. Jeannette was under strict orders to lock up the liquor, but the little squirrels found their way into it nonetheless.

  On that day, approximately a dozen activities were scheduled, and Alicia was to assist with the preparations. While the Children and their friends rabble-roused outside, wearing ever more patches into the lawn, Alicia filled picnic baskets with hard-boiled eggs, hamburgers, hot dogs, Cokes, and beer. Once they finished pummeling each other, they were to sail to a nearby island for more sparring. Alicia packed the boats with the lunches and also footballs, baseballs, bats, and a smattering of other sporting equipment she found in the shed.

  While the Children were gone, Mrs. Kennedy played French records and practiced the language, badly. Soon, way too soon, the troupe pounded into the kitchen, sweaty and sunburned and crawling all over the pantry like ants.

  “I want another hot dog.”

  “Gimme some Cokes.”

  “Why does Jeannette always lock up the booze?”

  “Who the hell put croquet balls in the boat?”

  Alicia glanced up in time to see Jeannette thwacking Teddy on the chest with a rolled-up newspaper.

  “Stop beating me, Jeannette!” he said, then sprayed a can of Reddiwip into the air.

  Teddy scampered out of the room, and his mob followed, punching and kicking each other as they went.

  “This family,” Jeannette said. “They are always hungry. For food, for sports, for everything.”

  “Yes,” Alicia said with a snort. “I’ve noticed.”

  Jeannette had it the worst. The kitchen was her domain, but it was also the home’s thoroughfare, the primary entry and exit point between the Kennedy universe and the outside world. This meant lots of smacking doors, scrabbly feet, and grabby hands, all day long.

  “They’re a pack of wild animals is what they are,” Jeannette said, “every last one of them. They’re either going to change the world or end up dead. Immortality or a tragic end.”

  “But who will achieve it first?” Alicia asked with a smirk.

  “Definitely Jack,” Jeannette said, shaking her head once again.

  It was a wonder that she never got dizzy.

  “Would you please make up some lemonade and tea?” she asked. “For the tea, use the recipe from the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. The large pitchers would be best. The Children are set to play softball and they’ll be parched in no time.”

  “Softball?” Alicia said. “After all they’ve already done? Doesn’t anyone need naps?”

  “The mind boggles,” Jeannette said. “Thank goodness for the Ambassador. They make fun of his rules, but he’s the only one keeping them the slightest bit in line.”

  * * *

  Alicia was inventorying the wine cellar when dinner began.

  She didn’t hear the bell but felt the thunderous rattle as family and guests descended upon the dining room. “Barbarians,” “heathens,” “untrained gorillas,” all these words muttered by the help. Alicia didn’t think they were quite as monstrous as described, although she’d never known so many people to be impaled by forks. Maybe Mr. Kennedy was on to something with his “only one drink before dinner” rule.

  “Here’s the list,” Alicia said, walking into Miss Dee’s office, which sat off the living room.

  From where they were seated, they could hear the silverware ding, dishes clash, and voices hum. Every few seconds, someone made a joke, which was followed by a blast of laughter.

  “Hmmmm,” Miss Dee said, scanning the paper with her clear green gaze. “We’re better stocked than I thought. We should have enough, but I’ll confirm with the Ambassador to make sure.”

  She looked up, eyes sparkling.

  “Thank you ever so much, Miss Darr. I realize this isn’t in your job description but you’re a tremendous help.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Alicia said. “I don’t have a job description, really. I’m merely here to pitch in.”

  “And thank goodness for that.”

  Both women paused, and listened for a second as the Ambassador relayed the story of a problem brewing on Crete. A civil war was set to break out, thanks to a star-crossed love. A “modern Trojan War.”

  “Visualize a nineteen-year-old, raven-haired beauty named Tassoula,” Mr. Kennedy said. “She is wealthy and politically connected. Her father is the Liberal Party deputy.”

  “Sounds like a hot numbah,” one of the Children responded in his twangy Boston tone.

  It was Bobby, no doubt. Teddy was more playful than uncouth, and Jack was never that idiotic.

  “Her boyfriend is a thirty-five-year-old man named Costas,” the Ambassador continued. “Costas is likewise quite wealthy, and he is reported to have the finest mustache in all of Crete.”

  “If that’s his number one quality, then Tassoula should probably find another option,” Ethel said, and Alicia cringed, bracing against her rough voice.

  Ethel never earned hurrahs like the others did, though not for lack of trying.

  “Are you bastahds gonna listen to Dad’s story, or keep spouting off?”

  “Language,” Mrs. Kennedy sniped.

  “Thank you, Teddy, but I can defend myself,” the Ambassador said. “As I was saying, whereas Tassoula’s family are noted members of the Liberal Party, Costas’s family is wholeheartedly Populist, and his brother is their deputy.”
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  “Jesus, that’d be like marrying a Republican. Someone should tell Costas that you don’t have to propose to every broad you screw.”

  “Bobby!” Mrs. Kennedy squawked. “Enough!”

  “If you’ll allow me to continue,” Mr. Kennedy said. “Now, despite their conflicting politics, the two fell in love and announced their intention to marry. Unfortunately, on Crete, any woman under twenty-one must get permission from her parents to wed. Naturally, Tassoula’s father wouldn’t stand for it. He decreed that he’d rather see his daughter dead than married to a Populist.”

  “Must be a swell guy,” someone grumbled. “Politics over family.”

  Jack, it had to be Jack. He shared his family’s Bostonian lilt but his voice was different somehow, apart. Alicia’s heart began to trip over itself and she prayed Miss Dee wouldn’t send her into that room. She couldn’t ignore Jack, but she wouldn’t be able to look at him either.

  “Because Tassoula’s father refused to allow the union,” Mr. Kennedy said, “Costas kidnapped his young love.”

  “Alicia?” Miss Dee said. “Did you hear me?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Alicia shook her head. “I didn’t catch that.”

  “Sometimes it’s challenging to focus in this house. I was wondering if you could assist with another task? Before you leave?”

  “I’d be pleased to.”

  She needed the extra hours, but more than that Alicia wanted to hear the rest of Mr. Kennedy’s story, the part about the kidnapping, and how it might cause a war.

  “Here are notes from today’s calls and meetings,” Miss Dee said.

  She placed a few sheets of paper on a nearby table as Mr. Kennedy explained that Tassoula’s father armed three thousand men to defeat Costas, who’d decamped to Mount Ida, the birthplace of Zeus.

  “I took these for the Ambassador this morning,” Miss Dee said.

  Alicia nodded, for she’d seen them together during the calls and conversations. As always, Miss Dee made notes with one hand, and held Mr. Kennedy’s hand with the other.

  “Can you read them aloud so that I may type them out?” Miss Dee asked.

  She faced her Smith-Corona.