The Summer I Met Jack

by Michelle Gable

  “Sure thing,” Alicia said.

  She took a seat as Miss Dee cranked the paper into place.

  “When the archbishop visited Tassoula,” Mr. Kennedy said from the other room, “the girl confirmed that she loved this man, and wanted to be married, and had left of her own free will. Now, the country waits. It’s expected that a war will break out because no one is willing to budge.”

  “Wow!” said a person not of the Kennedy camp.

  “That’s wild!” said another.

  “Begin on the first page,” Miss Dee said, “and work your way through. This shouldn’t take any time at all. Then you can go home and get on with your life.”

  “Will do,” Alicia said, stacking the papers on her lap. “Ready when you are.”

  “Okay. Oh, wait. Damn it! I’m out of ink. Just one moment.”

  Miss Dee spun toward the wooden file cabinet behind her and began poking around.

  “Hard to believe the entire country is wrapped up in this romance,” said one of the guests. “Can you imagine if your fling became an affair of the state?”

  “It’s bound to happen to someone,” Bobby said. “Men are always getting in trouble for taking off their trousahs.”

  “But a war? Usually sex scandals involve nothing more than a man screwing his secretary and his wife making a big demonstration about it. Throwing his clothes into the front yard, that sort of thing.”

  “I would like to know how we’ve degenerated into a discussion of sexual congress at the dinner table,” Mrs. Kennedy huffed. “And I wouldn’t call your example a scandal. No man is above falling in love with his secretary. That’s at least half the point of them.”

  The conversation died, at least in Alicia’s mind. What a thing to say, with Mr. Kennedy’s own secretary seated footsteps away. Alicia looked toward Miss Dee, horrified. Here she’d been such a kind and gracious assistant, doing every last thing the Ambassador required.

  “Miss Dee…”

  The woman glanced over her shoulder and the two locked eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Alicia started to say, but Miss Dee was not embarrassed, or even mildly perturbed.

  Instead, she offered Alicia a conspiratorial wink.

  “I guess the jig is up,” she said with a laugh.

  Miss Dee spun back around, fresh typewriter ribbon in hand.

  “Shall we get to it then?” she asked. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of listening to these Kennedys yammer on.”

  * * *

  Alicia and Irenka worked twelve hours that day. It was after ten o’clock, and their shifts were over, yet they remained at the house.

  “I need find sometink,” Irenka said as she rummaged through Miss Dee’s office, in the semidarkness, for a reason she refused to explain.

  “We’re going to miss our bus,” Alicia said. “And Mrs. Kennedy is not going to be pleased with the prospect of paying us overtime.”

  “Mizz Kennedy is asleep.”

  Irenka opened a cabinet.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “We must lock house,” Irenka said.

  “I’ve never once seen anyone lock a door in this house.”

  “Shhh!” Irenka barked. “Dey tell me lock and bring key tomorrow. But Miss Dee never say where is dis key.”

  “The Children aren’t here,” Alicia said. “You know they never have their keys on them, or anything else for that matter.”

  The Kennedys traveled light, nothing but shirts on their backs, and sometimes not even that if the Kennedy in question was Teddy.

  “Let’s go, Irenka. You must’ve misunderstood.”

  “You still very bad maid. We lock de house.”

  “But why?”

  “Bo tak.”

  Alicia sighed. Bo tak. She’d forgotten the Polish phrase, an expression whose closest English equivalent was “because: yes.” It had its uses, she supposed.

  “Hello, ladies,” someone said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Mr. Kennedy!” Alicia said.

  One hand flew to her chest and Irenka froze, hovered above Miss Dee’s desk.

  “What are you doing up at this hour?” Alicia asked.

  Mr. Kennedy loomed in the doorway, tall and lank in his silk lounging suit. The light from the green desk lamp echoed off his precise, round spectacles.

  “It is rather late,” he agreed, “but when you get to be my age, beauty sleep seems a bit futile.”

  Alicia laughed dully as the Ambassador made several creeping steps toward them.

  “Does Janet know you’re snooping in her office?” he asked.

  Mr. Kennedy detected her alarm, and chased the accusation with a playful wink.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Janet—Miss des Rosiers—a thing,” he said, looking directly at Alicia. “It will be our little secret.”

  “There’s no secret!” she said.

  She glared at Irenka, who was suddenly struck dumb. Not that she was ever particularly …

  Oh, never mind.

  “Miss Dee told us to lock up the house and we’re trying to find a key,” Alicia explained. She glanced at Irenka. “Or was it Mrs. Kennedy who asked?”

  “Mother hasn’t locked up a day in her life,” Mr. Kennedy said. “Much to Jeannette’s consternation. She’s convinced some criminal element will abscond with Mother in the dead of night. Demand a ransom. That sort of thing. She has the whole plot worked out.”

  It wasn’t so outlandish, on account of their wealth. Not to mention, all those rumors of the “bedroom prowler.” Alicia should probably bring this to the Ambassador’s attention but she suspected Mr. Kennedy was already apprised of the man who snuck around at night and crawled into bed with the Girls’ friends.

  “Well, Irenka,” Alicia said, “it’s settled. We don’t need to waste any more time hunting for errant keys. I appreciate you clearing that up, Mr. Kennedy. Thank you and good-bye.”

  Alicia scooted past the man, careful not to make contact, or sully his nice silk with her handmaid paws. Once through the door, she planted herself in the hallway.

  “We don’t want to miss the last bus,” she said.

  Irenka persisted in her suspended state.

  “Chodźmy!” Alicia snapped.

  Good grief. Irenka Michalska: the only person on God’s green earth who could make a situation more awkward by doing absolutely nothing at all.

  “Teraz!”

  Mr. Kennedy padded farther into the office, his slippered feet plonking softly against the floor.

  “Miss Darr is quite right,” the Ambassador said, and lifted a letter from the desk. “No need to lock up.”

  And still Irenka did not move.

  “I’m leaving now,” Alicia said. “Are you coming?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Mr. Kennedy said as he inspected the envelope now in hand. “Janet forgot to mail this letter. It needs to go out by Monday. Would you take it to the post office for me?”

  This question was posed to Alicia, though Irenka was closest to the desk.

  “I’d be happy to,” Alicia said, shuffling into the room.

  She reached for the envelope, but Mr. Kennedy whisked it away.

  “Gosh darn, she wrote the address incorrectly!” he said. “Allow me to fix it.”

  “Oh.” Alicia blinked. “Okay. I can get it from Miss Dee tomorrow. It’s Sunday, so it won’t go out for another day anyhow.”

  “I’d prefer to take care of this right now and save Janet from one of her innumerable tasks. Poor thing.”

  The Ambassador pivoted sharply.

  “You can leave,” he told Irenka, who in turn scowled at Alicia.

  Alicia had wanted to set herself apart from the other help, to say nothing of displaced persons nationwide, but this was not how she hoped to do it. “Top servant” was never her aim, and in fact it was Irenka’s. Her friend’s goal was upstairs maid and then marriage to a humble man, with eight to ten kids to follow. She was welcome to all of it, because none of these
things were part of Alicia’s dreams.

  “Irenka can’t leave without me,” Alicia said, and reached for her hand. “We ride the bus home together and we’ll miss it if we don’t hurry. I’ll get the letter tomorrow. It will be my top priority.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” Mr. Kennedy said as he ripped open the envelope. “Your friend can take the bus.”

  Irenka made a noise, like someone squeezing air from a balloon. Finally, she moved.

  “But…” Alicia tried, though she likewise felt deflated.

  This was getting uncomfortable, and fast. Alicia reminded herself that of all the people in the house, Mr. Kennedy was the most well-mannered. Even the Children preferred him to their mother. This letter was probably very important, as he was an important man.

  “Mr. Kennedy, your offer is very kind,” Alicia said as the front door clicked. “But I’d hate to put you out.”

  “Don’t speak another word,” he snarled.

  Alicia gulped as he slid open a desk drawer. After locating a new envelope, he began to write.

  MG Woodward

  230 Park Avenue

  New York 17, New York

  It was the same address as on the original letter. Alicia was sure of it. Then again, why would he go to such trouble? She was probably missing a directional nuance, some American thing.

  Before long, the envelope was sealed, keys were fetched, and they were in Mr. Kennedy’s Rolls-Royce, motoring toward the east end. As they passed the empty bus stop, Alicia’s stomach sloshed. Was it his driving? The family employed a driver, so Mr. Kennedy was not usually behind the wheel.

  “Where did say you were from?” Mr. Kennedy asked as they veered onto Main Street.

  They passed the New Yorker, the Panama Club, the Hyannis Theatre, all of these places scheduled to close in the next couple of weeks. It seemed impossible that that side of town would be dark for the better part of a year.

  “Vienna, right?” Mr. Kennedy said.

  Alicia nodded. If she opened her mouth, she would surely vomit in his car. Her employment with this family had one week left, so there was no need to set facts straight. Austria or Poland, did it matter? At least he didn’t mistake her for a Russian.

  “You should be a model,” he said. “An actress, perhaps. You know, I used to own a movie studio. My daughter Pat works in Hollywood and she’s very well-connected. If you need anything, I’m sure she’d help you out. Your friend … now she’s made for physical labor. But not you.”

  “An artist,” Alicia managed to croak. “I wish to be an artist. I studied painting in Pol—back home.”

  “Ah, that’s right. The Viennese artist.” He waggled his brows. “It has a certain ring to it.”

  Now that he mentioned it, it rather did. Alicia smiled tightly.

  “Turn here,” she said, her voice at a high pitch. “It’s the two-story house on the left. With the red truck in front, the lights on in the window upstairs.”

  Their window. Hers and Irenka’s. Oh Lord, Alicia would give anything to walk in and find the Irenka from Oklahoma City, her onetime closest friend. So many letters, over so many months: Irenka’s endless bragging about her job, and the Kennedys, and the gleam of their special type of rich. But what Alicia had mistaken for an invitation, she now saw as bravado, a way for Irenka to convey how far she’d climbed. Now Alicia threatened to overshadow her. This must be the explanation for their sudden discord. Alicia hadn’t committed any other foul.

  “Thank you ever so much,” she said to Mr. Kennedy when they rolled to a stop.

  She fumbled with the lock.

  As the Ambassador leaned over, Alicia socked herself against the seat. How she prayed the neighbors were asleep. A Rolls was the swankiest ride in town and there was something unsavory about the combination of the car, the hour, and the girl.

  “You are extraordinarily beautiful,” Mr. Kennedy said, and, in one swift move, clamped down on Alicia’s thigh.

  She gave a jump, which did not put him off. Her uniform had hiked up on the drive and Alicia cursed herself for not taking care to keep it below the knees.

  “Mr. Kennedy, I really should go,” Alicia said, wondering if she’d have to change her name yet again. “I can see Irenka in the window. She is waiting for me.”

  Alicia summoned the strength to wrench herself from Mr. Kennedy’s grasp. She kicked open the door and hustled toward the house, biting away the tears as the Rolls-Royce idled at the curb.

  * * *

  Alicia tiptoed into their room and tossed her handbag onto the desk.

  “I thought you’d wait for me,” she said to Irenka’s back.

  The woman was feigning sleep, and poorly at that. For Pete’s sake, Alicia had witnessed Irenka’s slumber at least a hundred times and this didn’t come close to the real thing. She’d neglected the buzz saw snore, for one.

  “I know you’re awake,” Alicia said, and unbuttoned the top of her uniform. “I made it home safely, in case you were worried. I don’t appreciate being left to fend for myself. If the situation were reversed, I would’ve waited for you.”

  “De situation vould never be reversed.”

  Irenka flipped over. She looked Alicia square in the face.

  “You vant to be alone vid Mizzer Kennedy.”

  “That is quite untrue,” Alicia said, and wiggled out of her dress, stripping down to her pink slip. “I tried to refuse. You were there. You saw what happened.”

  “Refuse?” Irenka snorted. “I am sure you refuse nuttink.”

  “You are creating a rather elaborate story for someone merely trying to do her job.”

  Irenka sat up.

  “I hate it,” she said, trembling with rage. “I hate how you act like innocent. A good girl. Like you don’t know anytink. You vant husband. Rich husband. But he vill never marry you. Never!”

  “Mr. Kennedy?” Alicia laughed and lumbered toward her mattress. “Well that’s a relief. He is already wed and rather old. Who’d want that many children?”

  “Poor Mizz Kennedy!” Irenka wailed. “All dees vultures circlink, circlink. She is kindest, most virtuous voman in America.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Alicia sighed. “But I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

  She pulled on a black silk sleeping mask, a relic from her days (and employee discount) at Brown’s.

  “I know tinks about you,” Irenka said. “Very bad tinks. You have made sin.”

  “Oh, Irenka,” Alicia said with a chuckle, for she was too tired to be upset. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but we’ve all sinned. The war had a way of blurring right and wrong. You know this.”

  “I see you. I see who you are. You disgustink.”

  “Well, lucky for you, I’ll only be at the house another week. Then you can be rid of me for good. Not to worry, dear friend. Soon you’ll have the Kennedys all to yourself.”

  MAY 2016

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The envelope lands on her desk. It’s her first day. She’s there for the summer, filling in for the assistant of an assistant, who’s out on maternity leave. It’s quiet this time of year, which she’s been told is a blessing and a curse. At least she can wear her Metro shoes all day long.

  She studies the envelope, which is addressed in loopy purple handwriting and includes a peculiar lack of specifics. Because she doesn’t want to be demanding, or seem like a doofus, she waits until her third day to ask for help from the guy in Payables. He’s given her the eye at the espresso machine, several times so far.

  “Do you know what to make of this?” she asks, deciding he’s sort of cute.

  The man from Payables is anxious to help and is shocked she’s approached him of her own volition. This could lead to lunch, he thinks. Eventually drinks.

  “Is that supposed to be an address?” he asks.

  “I think so. It’s very general. It reminded me of a letter to Santa Claus.”

  As she blushes at her lame joke, he spins around to his compu
ter, and begins to clack.

  “This person is real,” he says. “Alas, no longer at this address.”

  He hands it back.

  “Return to sender.”

  “Don’t you have forwarding information?” she asks.

  “Are you crazy?! We can’t give student information to some rando! Think about it!”

  “Sorry,” she grumbles.

  He realizes with great regret that there probably won’t be any lunches. Meanwhile, she’s determined, Eh, maybe not that cute. Later she’ll eat a lonely turkey sandwich at her desk, in front of her computer. He’ll berate himself for blowing it once again.

  “Plus, I don’t think you can forward mail to Rome,” he adds, gently, he hopes. “A different mail system and all that.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  The girl slumps toward her desk, envelope in hand. Once seated, she writes No longer at this address and circles the words. Just below she adds, Try Rome.

  It’s the best she can do.

  HUMBLE REFUGEE MAKES GOOD

  The Portsmouth Herald, September 1, 1950

  HYANNIS PORT

  Irenka was at work when Mrs. McGovern, the landlady, nervously tapped on their bedroom door. She came with unfortunate news.

  “The fire marshal paid me a visit,” she said. “There are too many people in this house. You will have to leave.”

  It surprised Alicia that a fire marshal might care about the occupancy of a private home, especially when the occupancy was four. Had they no immigrant families on Cape Cod? A dozen bodies packed into an apartment made for two? But Alicia was not one to question rules or laws, at least not out loud.

  “Okay,” she answered. “If that’s what he said.”

  “He did.” Mrs. McGovern nodded vigorously as she flushed a deep pink. “He said it. And if we don’t comply, he’ll report us for running a nonpermitted hotel, even operating a brothel.”

  “Excuse me?!” Alicia said with a laugh. “This must be the sorriest brothel in America! Rather, he could cite us for running an illegal convent.”

  “I really hate to do this to you,” Mrs. McGovern said. “You seem like a nice girl, but I can’t make waves at city hall. They’re notorious for their retribution, and we couldn’t survive if they revoked my husband’s fishing license.”