Of course, she thought. That was why his bedroom was on the ground floor, because the stairs were sometimes too much to take. She felt like an utter clod.
“I don’t need to see your family’s private quarters,” she said. “Let’s finish the wine.”
“You wanted to see it, and that’s what’s going to happen.”
Jack trudged upstairs with increased conviction. She followed, watching the floor so she didn’t have to witness his shirks and grimaces. When they reached the top, he twisted out his spine.
“All right,” he said, “prepare to be underwhelmed.”
Jack led her from one end to the other, ticking through the bedrooms, which were as unremarkable as promised. One needed quantity over quality with so many children, Alicia supposed, though Mrs. Kennedy’s floral and white-lace ocean-view suite was an exception. Rose hadn’t been to Hyannis Port in weeks, but her sweet, powdery scent lingered.
When they reached the Ambassador’s room, Jack hesitated.
“This is where Pop sleeps,” Jack said, and prodded open the door with his foot. “It’s nothing special. You can poke around, but I feel odd going inside.”
Jack rotated away from his father’s room, and Alicia stole a glance. Something caught her eye. It was a painting—a curious circumstance, as one of the first things she noticed about the Kennedys was their lack of art.
“Wait a second,” she said.
Alicia took a few steps and stopped. Her legs went weak.
“Everything okay?” Jack asked.
“Your father’s room,” she said. “There’s a painting in it.”
Alicia heard the clomp of Jack’s feet as he approached.
“Oh, yeah.” He snorted. “That wretched thing. He bought it off some slut for twenty bucks. Caused a big uproar with Mother. Naturally, she was infinitely more peeved about the twenty bucks than the bimbo or the crappy art. He doesn’t even like it. I think he keeps it up to prove some kind of point.”
He snickered and Alicia stiffened.
“Sorry, kid,” he said, “you probably didn’t want that sorta peek under the Kennedy skirt. I know you’re sensitive to the particulars of their relationship.”
Alicia shook her head, for it was not about their marriage but instead the “crappy” art.
She recognized the painting. She recognized the building and its majestic domes and spires, the bone inlay and mosaic facade. It had been one of Alicia’s favorite places in Łódź, which was why she put it on canvas.
“What building is it?” she asked, her throat dry, her voice crackling. “Do you know?”
“Probably a church or cathedral or something. Beats me.” Jack grabbed her hand. “Come on, enough about my father’s ill-begotten art. There are a few hours left until daybreak, and I need a week of Alicia, at least.”
JOHN F. FITZGERALD DIES
The Boston Daily Globe, October 3, 1950
HYANNIS PORT
Alicia probably had more paint in her hair and on her body than on the canvasses themselves, but at least there was paint, and this was progress.
Was her work good? Was it awful? Somewhere in her flurry of production, Alicia lost the ability to tell. Mostly she saw indiscriminate smears of color; mostly she heard Jack’s words.
Wretched. Crappy.
That Joe Kennedy was the owner of her one sold piece was a referendum on Alicia’s talents, but whether for better or for worse remained a mystery. Alicia couldn’t think about that now. She had to get ready for her show.
Her goal was ten. Alicia had the five unsold pieces, and she’d recently completed Park Źródliska and the Fabryczna railway station, to bring the total to seven. Partway through her eighth piece, a spinning mill, Alicia fell into a fit of despair and took a razor right through it. There was something garish and unsettling about the red of the mill. Now Alicia was trying a seascape, as Jack advised.
“Alicia.”
She jumped, and spun around, crashing and knocking and nearly sending her entire repertoire into a dominoes-style collapse.
“George,” she said, panting. “You startled me. I almost ruined my whole show.”
Her offered no apologies, but George would not view this as a situation necessitating amends. Was it his fault that Alicia was jumpy? No, it was not.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, slipping between easels. “It’s nice to have some company. I could use a break.”
“A break?” he said. “At nine o’clock in the morning?”
“It’s morning?” Alicia’s eyes bugged. “I thought you were just home from work. Good grief, I must’ve been at this all night!”
Mrs. Neill had granted Alicia use of the attic for her studio, thus accounting for the tight space and her inability to determine the time of day. Unexpectedly light-headed, Alicia placed a hand on a wood beam. She had been up all night, hadn’t she?
“Are you planning on coming to work today?” George said. “You’ve missed three shifts so far and Paul is starting to ask questions. You’re the one who got him to fire Dewey so that you could have more hours.”
Alicia winced. She’d been a delinquent these days, it was true, but who had time to dole out Junior Mints when a gallery show was in the offing? It was a risk, but Paul paid her forty dollars per week. Alicia only had to sell a few paintings to compensate for the lost wages. Once this show was over, she could return to her job, and do it better than before. She’d even wear the ghastly uniform every day, instead of when she was in the mood, which was almost never.
“George, I can’t go to work,” Alicia said. “It’s only for a few more days.”
“Paul isn’t going to buy that you’ve been ‘sick’ this long.”
“You can survive without me. I’m no projectionist,” she said with a wink.
“It appears you’re making a joke,” George huffed, “but who is the person responsible for delivering a film to the public? Who receives the jeers when something goes awry? With you out, I’m expected to work the candy and the projector, and the situation is ripe for catastrophe.”
“But the Hyannis is closed for the season. Why can’t Paul feed the films and you work the counter? For now?”
“Because I’m the projectionist,” George said.
Alicia patted him on the shoulder.
“We know.”
Alicia sighed and skated past George. It was stuffy in that room, a bit crazy-making. George was getting blurry as they spoke.
“I’m going downstairs for breakfast,” she said. “If you’d like to join me.”
“I already ate.”
“You can still join me.”
“And do what?”
“Oh, George,” Alicia said, chuckling, feeling a tad maniacal. “You’re such a funny man.”
In the kitchen, Alicia found Mrs. Neill at the table reading a paper in her nightgown. Her gray-blond hair was teased and wild, her face still wrinkled from sleep.
“Good morning,” Alicia said, and retrieved her cottage cheese from the icebox. “Is there still coffee? Or shall I make another pot?”
“Goodness! Alicia!” Mrs. Neill looked up, eyes wide with alarm. “Have you heard the terrible news? Your beau’s grandfather has passed! It’s right here in the paper.” She tapped the article with one stubby finger. “‘Former Boston mayor expired at eighty-seven.’”
“Oh, no,” Alicia said with a frown. “Jack must be crushed.”
He was close with the politically minded John Fitzgerald, so close that they shared a name. Jack spoke of his grandfather often and, contrary to rumors, it was Honey Fitz, not the Ambassador, who convinced Jack to go into politics.
“Should we send flowers?” Mrs. Neill asked. “To the family? This is so devastating!”
Alicia nodded. Although, eighty-seven: that was some life. Plus, he’d passed after a “long illness,” as it said right there in print. Alicia had never known anyone to live that long. Of course, she couldn’t express these sentiments to Jack.
She
peered over Mrs. Neill’s shoulder and skimmed the article.
Yet to the last he held high hopes for a brilliant career for “John F’s” favorite grandson, Congressman John Fitzgerald Kennedy, elected in 1946.
His daughter, Mrs. Rose Elizabeth Kennedy, wife of Joseph P. Kennedy, former Ambassador to Great Britain, is in Paris.…
Suddenly, George materialized in the doorway, appearing troubled, as if he’d walked in on someone else’s compromised position.
“Mother, why are you in a state of mild hysteria?”
“There’s been a death in the family!” Mrs. Neill cried.
“The family?” George said. “Are there people I don’t know about?”
“I’m referring to Jack’s grandfather!”
“Jack who?” His eyes skirted toward Alicia. “Jack Kennedy? Has anyone in this room even met the grandfather?”
“George, have a little compassion.”
As Mrs. Neill and her son bickered about what might constitute an actual tragedy, Alicia walked toward the counter, picking chunks of paint from her hair as she went. She pulled a compact from her handbag, and checked her reflection. She did not look all that bad.
“I’ll send Jack a cable,” Alicia said, powdering her nose.
She swiped her lips with her trademark red.
“That’s sweet,” Mrs. Neill said. “Then you can, I don’t know, bake him some sweets for when he comes to town, for the show? Oh, did I mention? I found Mr. Neill’s tripod and camera. I can’t wait to document your big day. Don’t worry, I’ll practice first!”
Alicia clicked her compact shut.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re always so generous.”
“So, you’re definitely not going to work today?”
“Oh, Georgie, leave her alone. Work at a time like this? Really! But, Alicia dear, don’t you want to change? Those dungarees have seen better days. Also, they are dungarees.”
“It’s fine,” Alicia said, dazed.
Maybe it was the lack of food, or the lack of sleep, or the dust in Mrs. Neill’s crawlspace. Or perhaps it was sadness for Jack, and for Mrs. Kennedy, too. Yes, Honey Fitz had enjoyed a long life. Even more reason that he’d be missed by the people left behind.
“I probably won’t see anyone I know,” Alicia said. “And it’ll only take a minute.”
“Work, Alicia?” George said. “The job you so desperately needed?”
“I’ll see you all no later than ten.”
03OCT50
JOHN F KENNEDY=
322 OLD HOUSE BLDG WASHDC=
DEAR JACK SO SAD TO HEAR OF YOUR GRANDFATHERS PASSING WILL GIVE FULL CONDOLENCES THIS WKND MUCH LOVE=
ALICIA=
3500 AT RITES FOR EX-MAYOR J. F. FITZGERALD
The Boston Daily Globe, October 6, 1950
HYANNIS PORT
Alicia walked briskly down Main Street, the wind stirring her hair and stinging her lips. Mrs. Neill had broken the news, but Alicia had to see for herself.
She approached the glass door, and cupped both hands beneath the gold foil letters to peek inside. The room was dark and empty, nothing but four walls and a floor. When she stepped back, Alicia saw a paper tacked to the doorframe. The notice was weathered and the nail holding it up had already started to rust.
Thank you for a great season! See you in May!
—Hyannis Gallery & The Cape Cod Art Association
Alicia slumped on the doorstep. She pulled both knees in to her chest and let a few tears fall. How silly to cry about art in a world like this, but no one was looking and she’d been holding it in too long. Here was a sign—an honest-to-goodness sign—that Alicia would not get her chance.
She thought of Mrs. Neill, decked out in her nicest skirt, dead husband’s tripod at the ready. She thought of George, spiffed up in black slacks and a skinny black tie, to match his specs and hair. And she thought of Jack. Alicia felt like she was disappointing him, too, though one would rightly see it as the other way around. Perhaps if she’d been a bit more special, a dash more talented, Jack would’ve kept his promise.
“What now?” she asked the sky and blustering clouds.
Her lantern-sleeved jacket flapped in the breeze.
Was she an artist, then? Or was she just a candy-counter girl? Alicia inhaled with a shudder. Maybe the answer didn’t matter. Or maybe it meant everything.
“You left your paintings at home,” said a voice.
Alicia looked up, then smiled through her tears. George had a camera looped around his neck, and was leaning on the tripod.
“The gallery is closed,” he noted.
“That seems to be the shape of things.”
Alicia pushed herself to standing and brushed off the skirt she’d purchased last week. It was the newest style, a slim wraparound number in a cinnamon hue. She’d almost bought the red, but didn’t want to risk competing with her work. Alas, no one would see the art, much less be distracted by her.
“Do you like my outfit, George?” she asked, and exerted some effort at a twirl, though this season’s silhouettes were not made for such things.
“I don’t know anything about fashion,” he said. “So I can’t offer a review.”
Alicia laughed and shook her head.
“I don’t want a review,” she said. “Only for someone to notice.”
“Well.” George cleared his throat. “You look beautiful. Is that okay to say?”
Alicia touched George’s chin with a gloved hand.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you for making my day. Well, it’s time to go home.”
Purse hanging from the crook of her arm, Alicia walked a few paces before realizing she was alone. She swiveled toward George, who hadn’t moved a stitch.
“I’d like to buy your paintings,” he said.
“George…”
“I have a budget of one hundred dollars. How many can I acquire? I want the best pieces, of course. Not the seascape. Kind of seems like you gave up on that one.”
Alicia laughed. For a second she felt okay.
“You can’t spend a hundred dollars to make a girl happy!”
“I thought artwork was supposed to make the purchaser happy,” he said.
“Yes, if the person buying it really wants the piece. It must speak to him; otherwise, it’s just something colorful to put on a wall.”
“Who says your work doesn’t speak to me? Also, I don’t think you’re in a position to be asking someone not to buy your art.”
“It’s not your style. Remember what you told me? Art moves. It talks.”
“I dunno what to say. I find myself invested in your work. It’s melancholy. I like things that are dark.”
“Spoken like a true projectionist.” Alicia walked toward him. “You can’t waste your money on this.”
“Is it a waste, though? Or a good investment? It should go up in value, because I’m getting you on the ascent.”
“I appreciate your very generous view of my future. It will go up, but only if I make a name for myself.”
“Obviously you’ll do that,” he said, with a roll of the eyes.
Alicia laughed again. She did not expect to feel such lightness, given the message on the door.
“I’ll sell you one painting,” she said. “And you must choose it, not me.”
“Fine. If that’s the deal you want to strike,” George said, and pulled out his wallet. “You need to learn to negotiate.”
“I know what I’m doing, Mr. Neill,” she said, and cocked a brow.
“Do you?” George said, and matched his brow to hers. “That’s funny, because it seems to me that nobody ever taught you when to say yes, or how to say no.”
CONGRESSMAN WOULD HELP
The Boston Daily Globe, October 13, 1950
HYANNIS PORT
When she heard Jack’s voice, that unmistakable clip with its dropped r’s and extra r’s at the stretching of one syllable into two, Alicia did the absurd. She hid, in a closet, besid
e a bucket and a mop.
“She was here a second ago,” George said. “Now … gone. I really don’t understand her sometimes.”
Jack laughed and Alicia’s insides felt at once filled with feathers. She clutched her belly to squash them down.
“That’s the way of broads, pal,” Jack said. “They don’t make any goddamned sense yet we love ’em all the same. Tell her I stopped by, would ya? I’m only on the Cape until tomorrow.”
Alicia held her breath. Soon the Center’s front door opened and then swooshed closed again. Alicia waited a full ninety seconds before slinking into the light.
“What was that about?” George wanted to know.
Alicia shrugged, because she didn’t understand either. Jack sought her out, which was something, but so was the forgotten gallery show and the unanswered telegram. Alicia wasn’t up for any half-baked excuses or, worse, no excuses at all.
“Isn’t he your beau?” George said.
At first, she took this for a snide remark, and so Alicia looked at him crookedly in return. Then she remembered this was George, and he never meant any malice.
“That depends,” Alicia said. “Would a beau arrange an art show and then forget, and then never acknowledge the forgetting in the first place?”
Alicia shook her head, embarrassed that she’d risked her job for a politician’s promise. She knew better. Even someone like her, a refugee with next to nothing, even she had something to lose. How had Alicia not learned that by now?
“Sometimes life circumstances get in the way,” George said.
“Excuse me?” Alicia blinked. “I’m surprised you’re on his side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. But didn’t someone die?”
“Well, yes…”
“And isn’t he campaigning?” George said. “That’s what you told Mother. A different city every night.”
Alicia nodded reluctantly. The schedule, it’d been one explanation she’d given for his absence, a way to “save face,” as the saying went. But it was also true, as was the fact of Grandpa Fitzgerald’s demise.
“How come you always have an explanation for the most convoluted of circumstances?” she asked.
The Summer I Met Jack Page 13